Behind the Mask
by BritLuvr
Summary: Summary/details inside, cast of Repo! as they would be in Phantom. Rated M for safety, rating S2C.
1. BritLuvr

Hullo all! It's your friendly neighborhood BritLuvr~! :3

**First time readers: **Welcome, welcome! Here's some information you'll want before continuing!  
>Rating: M<br>Reason: Violence, blood/gore, sexual themes (though not limited to, and not necessarily in that order)  
>Synopsis: Shilo Wallace, orphaned at a young age when her mother died, has been moved to Paris' most popular Opera House to live with and train under her godmother, Mag, the Opera House's ballet mistress. But not everything is as it seems, and soon Shilo must face unimaginable horrors that will test her love, her strength, and her sanity, all for the sake of the Angel's music!<p>

**Returning readers: **Hello again, my lovelies! As you can tell, I'm giving our dear old BtM something of a facelift. :) It's nothing major, I got just tired of opening the story to quick check that the upload went right and running against the brick wall of text that used to be here. In essence, I've decided to use this page to keep tabs on newness. :) I'll also use it to answer FAQs, if any should arise! So, without further ado:

April 10, 2012  
>+Restructured published chapters-put chapter names in bold at top of page, moved all AN's to bottom (unless otherwise needed), respaced paragraphs to prettier visuals  
>+Replaced opening chapter with this update page<br>+Added two shiney chapters (twelve and thirteen)

And, as always, please feel free to PM me with any questions/comments you may, and reviewreviewreview! :D


	2. Prologue: A Note From The Graverobber

~*~ _Behind the Mask ~*~_

_What are you about to read, my poor misguided soul, is not to be taken lightly. It is the true story of a man who was a monster; a monster that was an angel; an angel that was mortal; a mortal that was eternal. It is a story that was left to rot in the seething shadows before I found it, a story that would never have been told, would have been left alone, if never I had taken an interest in it._  
><em>They call me a liar. A corruptor of the innocent. And perhaps they're right: I am forever in the company of fine drugs, fine wine, and fine women.<em>  
><em>But she was pure, and I may have loved her.<em>  
><em>And for her sake, I will tell this story in all it's horrible truth.<em>  
><em>You have been warned.<em>  
><em>Your Humble Narrator,<em>  
><em>The Graverobber.<em>

**A/N: Hai there, I'm BritLuvr! This story is a co-written goldmine between me and my friend, who doesn't have an FF account. We wanted to upload it here for the fans to yay or nay, aren't we sweet? :3 It's not doen yet, but we're far enough along to wan input, so feel free to reviewreviewreview~!  
>For the general interest of my sanity: No one in this story is realted to anyone else. It just didn't work that way, sorry! (...however, I have this theory that Shilo is Nathan's illegitimate daughter! *gasp!*)<br>Pairings to look forward to: Grilo, Shavi, Mathan, Ambigi  
>And finally, why would anyone write this? I had just re-watched <em>Repo! <em>for the eigth- or ninth-hundredth time, and was listening to the duet from _Phantom_, when it randomly struck me that in AU, Pavi could totally have been the Phantom...AND A CROSSOVER WAS BORN!  
>More to come later!<br>Much love~! 3**


	3. One: The Angel Is Bruised

**Chapter One: The Angel is Bruised**

Even years later, the sight of Shilo made Mag's heart ache. Her throat would tighten painfully and her eyes well over with tears whenever Shilo sang. She was so much like her mother: Pale ivory skin and clear brown eyes, with ink-black hair that spills down the slender shoulders like a waterfall in the dead of night, and a voice that could raise the dead a final time in temptation of it's sweet, soft quality. Magdalene DeFoe, the "Mistress of the Opera", had been Marni Wallace's best friend; it was why Shilo had been brought to the Opera House following her mother's death, to be raised by Mag in accordance with Marni's will.

Today marked the beginning of the dress rehearsal period for the Opera's newest show, and Mag wanted none of her girls to be late, least of all Shilo. The Graverobber had been whispering of Terrance's retirement since he had first arrived at the Opera House, but this time, Mag believed the shady stage-hand. It seemed that Terrance was indeed retiring, unable to handle the stress of the Opera House and it's little _problem_.

"Shilo?" Mag called, knocking on the dressing room door. "Shilo, are you in there? We are about to begin rehearsals, Shilo, come out."

The door fell inward on silent hinges at Mag's knocking: Fearing the worst, the brave dame pushed into the room, casting about for her protégé and pseudo-daughter.

"Shilo? Darling?"

From beneath the many racks of dresses, Mag spotted a crumpled skirt and trembling legs. With careful hands, she pushed aside the delicate garments, kneeling before her best friend's daughter, the love of her life, and silently, sadly, taking in the pale purple bruises and shining lines of crimson scratches as they welled up with blood, waiting patiently for Shilo to tell her what happened.

Shilo's vision seemed to waver between the hollow sight of despair and the sweet, mother-like figure kneeling beside her, the fright, substantially tangible, seeping through Mag's troubled expression. For Shilo, such a look inflicted the worst kind of pain. Despite the ebony licks of unconsciousness playing about Shilo's sight and the hazy fog that crowded her mind, the sight of Mag eased the pain created both physically and mentally. Mag was, at the moment, an anesthetic capable of numbing the aches, the hurt, the agony…the torment. She was a sight for sore eyes that had the slightest linger of unshed, but soon to befall, tears. For Shilo's eyes and unshed tears.

Shilo tilted her head, a wave of nausea come and gone, in order to indulge on a better view of Mag's features: clear and sharp against the dressing room lights. From such an angle, the wrinkles of worry seemed deep.

Now, as time continued to drawl on, it was apparent that although Mag had the potential of erasing the hurt, it was, at the most, impossible to suppress the uncomfortable feelings and thoughts completely, for the smell of freshly spilt blood still lumbered in the air, the cuts still slit and wailing crimson, and the confusion still intact.

In an urgent attempt for help and understanding, Shilo spoke through a clenched throat, "I did nothing wrong," pause for a burning breath, "I spread no rumors… so why attack me?"

Mag smiled, slow and bittersweet, a habit she had developed over the years for Shilo's sake. Mag had seen, when the pale and trembling girl first arrived to the Opera House, that she didn't need a friend. She had needed her mother. And, in Marni's absence, Mag had gone from understudy to star, raising the child as her own. This smile was Mag's tribute to Marni's memory-the same sad smile her friend had bestowed on her when all the world was wrong and the two were forced to stand alone. But they had never stood alone; they stood together, that was what that smile meant and why Mag saved that smile only for the girl.

_Once it had been his, too..._

But the thought was gone almost before it could register.

Mag pulled Shilo close, cradling the thin shoulders in her loving embrace. Smooth ivory cheek met silky ebony hair as she rocked the young ballerina in her arms. This was Amber's doing, Mag knew it, had known it, perhaps, since the moment she noticed Shilo was late. Amber, the prima donna of the Opera House, who had taken it upon herself to be Shilo's personal hell from the moment the younger girl had arrived.

Frowning, Mag pulled back and held Shilo's face between her hands. Violence had never been Amber's style. Harsh words, cruel rumors, not-so-innocent pranks...but never once had Amber committed an act of violence. Terrance wouldn't have stood for it, and the girl valued the limelight far too much to risk it for the sake of a bruise of two.

_Luigi, then_, Mag decided, taking inventory. For every crimson drop spilt, for every inch of pale skin now turning purple, for every sickly yellow bruise that formed, Mag would see the primo don suffered. He couldn't continue to get away with his growing appetite for brutality for much longer, anyway. Touching one of Mag's ballerinas was the beginning of the end; touching Shilo in particular was the end of it all.

But she couldn't just fling suggestions like that about. Pain her as it might, she had to be sure.

"Shilo, did Amber and Luigi do this to you?"

A phantasmal road bisected in Shilo's mind at the presence of Mag's question:_ "…did Amber and Luigi do this to you?" _

The divided path staged the two most palpable answers: willingly choose to speak the truth, admitting that her body was abused by the devious mind of Amber and the horrid hands of Luigi, or deny that the forming bruises and crimson filled cuts were the doing of that pair. Despite the contrast between such roads, both were filled with cruel despair and vigor so vivid and threatening it was painfully scary. Should she reveal the naked truth, dire consequences would be taken no-doubt. The punishment could only anger Amber. Nevertheless, should Shilo hide such a crime, what would be told of the crimson weeping gashes, or the sickening yellow and purple bruises?

Shilo's thoughts were at war, neither side wanting to admit defeat. It was a battle between feigned innocence and wholehearted selfishness. A battle between right and wrong.

The question remained opened and unanswered, awaiting a response and hanging over the two heavily. With her face cradled in the hands of the Mag, the woman she loved dearly for being her only source of motherly adoration, Shilo felt a compelling urge to relieve herself from some, if not all, of the agony. Her anesthetic numbed her senses, numbed the pain, and numbed the raging battle. Shilo simply wanted this situation to be over, the air to be cleared.

Slowly, anesthetized, Shilo made her decision. The struggle was over.

Her eyes locked onto Mag's own beautiful eyes as she inhaled, "Yes. It was them."

It was, for the trembling fragile lips, an unyielding sound. It was an empowering sound that seemed to have inflicted life and energy into her limb bones and left a deep resonance within her head that drowned out any lingering doubts Shilo had left. Clumsily, she stood and made a useless attempt at fixating her clothing.

With a halfheartedly smile, she extended her hand, "And I'm fine. There's no need to worry or dwell over anything. After all, the show must go on."

With a weary sigh, Mag took Shilo's hand and led the younger girl to the mirror, helping her to change into a spare costume and cover the bruising and cuts. Terrance would die if he saw them, and seeing them did nothing but sour Mag's mood. When the evidence of violence was all but invisible, the two women moved silently down the hallway, filled with purpose: The show, the dance, the song...the revenge.

**A/N: So, yes, you guessed it...Shilo is Christine. Good for you! Mag is sort of a combination of Madame Giry and Meg...dunno why. So, have fun discovering the rest of the cast!  
>PS: I'll give a cookie to whoever can guess why we don't have a Raoul!<br>Much love~! 3**


	4. Two: An Announcement Is Made

**Chapter Two: An Announcement is Made**

Amber gave Shilo a sneer as the girl entered the stage, looking like the perfect porcelain doll they all believed her to be. It gave Amber sick satisfaction that beneath the pale makeup-Mag's doing, no doubt-the girl was bruised and bleeding, and made so by Amber's will and brutal boyfriend. _That _would teach the little skank to spread rumors about her! She turned back to Luigi and the opera's other lead for the show, and they continued their discussion, each one pouring hateful disgust and contempt into the air and pointing it in the girl's direction.

From the shadows around the stage, though, the frivolous little bubble that the performers called their world was laid open, every pitiful gibe and shallow thought painfully obvious to the unobtrusive observer. Even with the half-empty bottle of gin in his hand and crazy colors knotted in his hair, the Graverobber was invisible to them, except when they needed him; and so, of course, he saw things, saw far more of the universe called the Opera House than any of its other inhabitants.

He saw Amber's catty satisfaction, Luigi's pleasure at her attention, Mag's silent fuming and deadly glares, and the hardly noticeable stiffness that haunted Shilo's usually graecful movements; he did the math and came out with a scandal; he saw the evidence and felt loathing and pity build up in equal measures in his chest, threatening to consume his soul if he didn't find a release. The gin was only a temporary balm on the wounds that were not his. If he wanted release, he would have to find a solution.

Finally, the long-awaited aria began: Amber and Luigi, confessing their undying love for each other in poorly accented Italian, the one scene where the two were alone onstage. Two others choose this moment to strike: Mag seized hold of Amber's inattention to take Terrance aside and tell Shilo's story even as Graverobber slipped silently behind all the other performers and gently touched Shilo's shoulder. He couldn't remember if it was injured or not, so his touch was ginger, little more than the whisper of a feather and the fragile girl's shoulder.

Hopefully, she would know what to do at the touch, would recognize the touch as his: He couldn't risk her reputation by standing about behind her, waiting for their eyes to lock. As soon as his fingers left her shoulder, he quickly disappeared, back into the shadows, to wait for her high above the performers' heads at the catwalk.

Shilo felt the tender touch upon her shoulder. Even with her eyes fixated downstage, even without having to glance at the respective person who gently brushed her unscathed shoulder, she need not wonder who it was. The jolt, the pleasurable jolt, sent through her body was enough to identify the man who was trying to gesture to her in the most unobtrusive way possible: the Graverobber, the man who knew what, to most, was unknown.

Her eyes remained focused on the scene being rehearsed on stage, the home given to her after her mother's passing, where she came to know both friends and foes. She watched intently as Amber, one of the few Shilo had immediately deemed an enemy, monopolized center stage. She stood on that stage as though she owned the sacred place and that conceited behavior bothered Shilo.

Perplexed by such pertinence, Shilo let her eyes quickly shift to Luigi, whose hands had left the marks on her body. The thought was anguishing. It was as though she could feel the roughness of his skin against hers as he aggressively unleashed his infamous violent rage. Underneath the make-up, the hidden cuts still gleaming crimson, the bruises still formed, and the pain began to burn. To brood about the event caused the slightest, most uncomfortable stir amongst the cuts left upon her. Seeing the pair act on stage like they hadn't just abused a fellow performer made her itch even more.

Shilo believed that to be her cue.

She edged away from the crowd unnoticed, moving swiftly, but carefully, towards the catwalk up above where stood another person she came to adore. But it wasn't simply adoration she felt for him. It wasn't the same adoration she felt towards the others. It definitely wasn't the same type of adoration she felt towards Mag, the person she loved most. Lovely and beautiful, tender and strong: the perfect pseudo-mother for her. It was the type of adoration held specifically for the one she loved, the secret passion that lit a flame in her young, ardent heart.

Such a kindhearted man he was to her. She was freely exposed to him, for he knew everything about her: her past, her present, her secrets- though one still stayed under lock and key.  
>The secret she kept of him. Her feelings.<p>

"Graverobber?" Her hands skimmed the railing as she approached, the love for her friend hidden in the shadows as they, themselves, were hidden amongst the shadows of the Opera House.

"Right here," he murmured, stepping from the deep shadows of the catwalk. He walked swiftly toward her, graceful as a falcon in the high perch, surveying the damage dealt with unreadable eyes and swift, gentle touches over the exposed skin.

"Bastards," he spat, slamming his hands on the railings to one side of her. He glared down at them, the conniving couple, who would soon bear the brunt of his wrath. But first, there was Shilo.

She needed him now more than ever.

Taking a deep breath, he turned back to the girl. She was forbidden fruit, and all the sweeter for it...but instead of seducing her, the Graverobber had promised Mag not to touch her. But their friendship had blossomed, and he had decided not touching her _in that way_ would satisfy the Dancing Mistress.

"Shilo," he began slowly, gingerly taking the girl's forearms in his large hands, "has Mag told you about Terrance yet?"

"Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and gentlemen, gather round, please!" The performers looked to the source of the politely clipped voice, Terrance, in some amusement. In spite of his constant presence at their rehearsals, Terrance said very little to them, and what was usually passed was laughably unimportant and inopportune. "I have an announcement to make."

Amber crossed her arms and scowled at the man who stood before the stage, wishing him the worst for interrupting her aria. Luigi's eyes gleamed in barely contained murderous rage as his fist clenched and unclenched in ill-disguised agitation.

"It is now, and with a heavy heart, that I must announce my early retirement from the management of this opera house." A gasp went up, followed by the collective murmur as the inhabitants of the House steeled themselves for the worst. For all his faults, Terrance was a good manager: His retirement couldn't be good for business. "I leave you now in the hands of the two most capable men I know, Rotti Largo and Nathan Wallace."

The two men stepped up to Terrance's side, each grinning. One was short and squat, a touch overweight, and his pleasant demeanor felt faked, even for the theatre. The other was taller and leaner, softer somehow, and he fairly glowed with the truth of his pleasure.

"It was a delight to have worked here with the all of you, and I wish you the best of luck."

And without further ado, Terrance strode out of the Opera House for the very last time.

The squat man looked about, cold eyes making swift calculations, before his faked smile widened, like a toad preparing to eat some delectable new insect.

"Well," he boomed, looking now at the performers, "I'll leave you to it. Should you need me, I'll be in our office." And he turned and began to leave. Before he had taken more than ten paces, he spun quickly back around, false mien dropped to reveal an ugly scowl. "_Try_ not to need me."

And with that he was gone, leaving the fidgety taller man in his wake, staring wide-eyed at the world of opulence before him.

"Yes, well," he stammered, nervously smoothing back his hair. "I'll, uh, I'll stay here, shall I? Watch the, uh, the performance come together, yes?"

He cast about, confused and lost, before selecting a seat on the aisle of the fifth row and staring dumbly back at the performers. After a moment of contemptuously eyeing the hapless owner, they went back about their duties, beginning the aria from the top.

In the catwalk above, the Graverobber, distancing himself from Shilo.

"I suppose you know now," he chuckled, shaking his head darkly.

Shilo leaned against the metal railing, propping her head upon her arms, watching as the performers scurried back offstage, leaving a fuming Amber and agitated Luigi alone onstage once again. As the scene began anew, the two reclaiming their undying love for each other, Shilo's focus fell solely upon the humble man, a foreigner in this Opera House, who sat observing the dramatic performance unraveling before him.

She couldn't help but simper as she recalled how timidly he spoke despite his somewhat strong appearance. Shilo admired Nathan's innocent-or as innocent a man could be at his age-quality. He had an almost fatherly affection emitting from his every pore and, to Shilo, such a presence was welcoming and pleasantly inviting.

"Nathan…" Shilo uttered, lips pressed gently against her arm. She knew nothing of him, but she was certain that Nathan was a kindhearted fellow. He reminded her of Mag: Unpretentious, caring, loving.

Nothing of the sort could be said for the other, more aggressive manager. He was a tad bit more contemptuous and unfit to be in a sanctuary such as the Opera House.

With two polar opposite managers, and the sudden retirement of Terrance, Shilo's mind would have begun to buzz with curiosity, if it were not already buzzing from the lingering pain of the cuts and bruises. What puzzled her all the more, however, was why Terrance had even decided to retire or why a manager as good as he had been would want to. It was a complete shock.

It was a haunting question.

Shilo inhaled, suppressing her curiosity for a moment, and reminded herself where she stood and with whom. It was these moments she enjoyed: The time she spent with him, by his side. Meeting him secretly, sharing thoughts, falling in love with him despite his reputation, kindled both a tender and thrilling feeling.

She turned to face Graverobber, finding him in the dark. Right then, atop the catwalk, she searched his stern face. His expression was invariably difficult to read, but in the shadows it was even more unreadable-with the exception of the small glimpse of the dark expression he harbored after Terrance's announcement a few moments earlier. Slowly, Shilo let go of the railing and walked toward him, stopping when she was close enough to smell the bittersweet scent of gin, but still a fair distance apart.

"Are you bothered by anything?" Shilo furrowed her brow, both with worry and in deep thought.

Graverobber sighed and rubbed the back of his neck, irritated that he hadn't warned Shilo in time.

"You know what Terrance's retirement means for you, don't you?" Dark blue eyes, accostumed to the low light, searched the doe brown orbs floating freely from the pale face, finding only that perfect innocence they had found dozens of times before. "It means Miss Sweet is off her leash, Shi. All bets on your survival are now officially off."

Mag slowly made her way to the man seated in the aisle, disbelieving. It had been years ago, lifetimes ago...no, _a _lifetime ago. _Marni's _lifetime ago. She could see it all so clearly...

_The tiny cottage in the country, the sun overhead and the grassy green knolls stretching off into the distance, the vineyards fragrant with their springtime harvests, and all the time in the world belonged to the two friends. Mag was in the kitchen, putting away the dishes, and Marni was at the piano, stretching her voice. Mag smiled at the fragments of music as they danced through the still cottage air. The sound of horse hooves sauntering down the cobblestone path, a prolonged pause, and a knock at the door._

_"Mag?"_

_"I've got it, Marni," she replied with a smile, drying her hands on a dishtowel._

_She had opened the door to reveal a handsome young man in aristocratic clothes, standing with a sheepish confidence he had only in their presence._

_"Hullo, Mag. Is Marni in?"_

_"Welcome back, Nate," _Mag said in time with the smiling young girl of her memory.

The new manager looked up, doubly startled. For starters, he hadn't thought anyone in the Opera House would actually approach him, at least not today...and then to approach him with such familiarity! He opened his mouth to gently deter the newcomer from their present course when he looked up and found himself staring at his old friend.

"Mag! Why, whatever are you doing here?" He was nervous again, and stammering, jumping clumisly to his feet to allow the stunning woman past him, into the seat next to the aisle.

"I work here now, Nate. I have ever since Marni moved back to the country."

"Oh," he responded, looking a bit like a sad and wounded puppy. "She's-"

"Yes," Mag agreed, her tone clipped and crisp. She seated herself and motioned for Nathan to do the same, allowing a warm smile to melt onto her features as the charmingly befuddled man regained her seat and some of his composure. "Her daughter is here as well."


	5. Three: The Song And The Singer

**Chapter Three: The Song and the Singer**

Shilo averted her eyes from Graverobber, stunned by his quick and blunt answer. She fidgeted with the sudden realization that, as much as it pained her to admit that Amber and Luigi had the upper hand now more than ever, Graverobber was most certainly right. Shilo had not imagined how much the inhabitants of the Opera House, at the very least Amber, would promptly change considering the attitudes of both new managers: Rotti surely wouldn't pay any mind as miffed as he was about someone needing him, and poor Nathan seemed to lack the backbone which he'd need if he were to confront Amber and threaten to take away her leading role.

Shilo exhaled a shaky breath and let her gaze fall upon the beautifully lit stage. She watched as rehearsal continued—watched as Amber and Luigi pranced about in all of their conceited glory.

She studied Amber: In the previous years, with Terrance as manager, Amber dared to do nothing but use her mouth as her only source of harm, violence, and abuse. It was all vocal, for she did not wish to risk her roles in the shows. Terrance's sudden retirement solely meant that Shilo was now completely and utterly both vulnerable and prone to Amber's attacks. Shilo's only hope was that _someone_ could reprimand Amber…

She moved her focus towards Nathan as he sat, again hoping to find some sort of strength in his character. Instead, she found that someone else had joined him: Mag. Shilo's eyes lingered on the two for a moment, mentally noting that she would have to question Mag about her relationship with Nathan. They seemed almost too comfortable together to be strangers, and he seemed at total ease with her by his side.

Shilo sighed, silencing her loud thoughts before looking up into Graverobber's eyes.

"Amber can try and break me as many times as her small, cold heart desires. I can handle it. After all, I'm here now, despite what they pulled earlier."

Shilo tried controlling the tremor of doubt that made her voice shake ever so lightly. "I have some wonderful people by my side too," Shilo moved closer, dropping her gaze as she slipped her hands in his.

"I have Mag," she lowered her voice to a mere whisper, "and I have you. That's more than she'll ever have."

Shilo gave his warm hand a light squeeze before reluctantly letting go and making her way back to where the performers stood as the scene came to an end, never once lifting her gaze to meet his deep blue eyes, knowing her own were all too readable.

Graverobber stared after the funny little girl, his hand still warm and tingling where her delicate fingers had wrapped around his. A heartbreaking warmth spread through him: She really trusted him, really enjoyed his company, really believed in his good character. And he really loved her, and could never really have her.

With a bittersweet smile tugging upwards on his lips, he went back to his duties.

"So this girl-"

"Amber," Mag corrected, setting her hand on Nathan's arm. "Her name is Amber. You'll have to learn it if you're going to work here, Nate."

"Right," he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He was very lucky to have Mag with him; otherwise, the stress of this job and all its little details might have proven too much for him. "So _Amber_ and her boyfriend..."

"Luigi," Mag offered.

"Luigi," he repeated, trying hopelessly hard to commit the name to memory. "So Amber and Luigi have beaten Shilo up?"

Mag couldn't help but smile at this: Nathan was struggling with everyone's name...everyone's but Shilo's. She could see it in his eyes, he already adored the girl, and he hadn't even met her.

"That's right," she said, looking back to the stage where the first bars of the company ballet could be heard signing up into the boxes. Shilo had a solo in this song, a beautiful ballet solo during which Luigi was supposed to be tempted from Amber's side. _We'll see if it goes any better today; if that clod can't learn to walk without stomping about, we'll have to try something new._ But Mag would take the opportunity to show Shilo to her mother's long-ago lover.

"You have to do something about it," she concluded, glancing quickly at him through the corner of her eye. He looked flustered and upset.

"That's really more of Rotti's job, Mag," he said quietly, staring apprehensively at the dancers. Which one, he wondered, was Shilo?

"Then have him do it," she asserted. He had opened his mouth as if to argue when she cut him off.

"Look there, Nate," she whispered, gesturing to one side of the stage, where in the wings she knew Shilo was waiting to make her grand entrance.

Shilo stood patiently waiting in the wings, her eyes closed tight.

She could still feel the lingering warmth of Graverobber's hand, the spaces between her fingers filled with his own. Even though she had only intertwined their hands for a mere couple of seconds, the bittersweet feelings coursing through her body were fascinatingly surreal to her. Such an incredible feeling only reminded her of the pain in her chest that came with it—the bitterness of a one-sided love, the aching longing that it might one day be returned.

Shilo couldn't help but smile, content that she had been able to convey a portion of her feelings to him. That alone was sufficient for now.

As for her remaining feelings, she would project them the only way she knew she did best: her performance. As a child, she was taught that a genuine performer uses with true feelings in their performance, unafraid to expose themselves to all in the audience. A magnificent dancer or singer employs pure emotions in every step and, therefore, hypnotizes the spectators with every little movement, be it big or small, soft or loud, beginning or end. Shilo, even if it was only rehearsals, would let anything and everything be reflected in her sweet, innocent movements upon the stage-her sanctuary-while she danced.

Shilo inhaled deeply, glancing up at the catwalk hidden in the shadows and then bringing her eyes back to the stage, more prepared than she had ever been before.

Gracefully, tenderly, and even gingerly, she stepped out into the bright lights, naked to anyone who happened to be watching. Her feelings poured, her smile was true, and her movements were flawless. She was the focal point, and it was her one opportunity to indulge on the heat of the moment with potent adrenaline flowing.

Mag had helped her realize just how much potential she had. Now, it was up to her to showcase what she was taught: truth and grace, the beauty within her soul, the awe that was her art.

Nathan couldn't take his eyes off of her. She looked just like Marni, the resemblance eerily uncanny. His heart ached, reaching out through his chest to hold his dearly beloved, dashing itself upon the stage and breaking into a million bleeding shards as the graceful swoops of Shilo's every move reminded him not only of her dearly departed mother, but of the pain she had suffered just recently. He longed to stroke the girl's inky black hair, to rub her porcelain arms and tell her everything would be alright now that he was there.

But he could do neither, and was forced only to watch as the memory of the cherished Juliet that had played to his now-dead Romeo flitted and flaunted about the stage with the girl, a bright glow that mimicked her every move.

"Marni...," he whispered softly, but his mouth was dry and his throat constricted.

"Yes," Mag sighed, sadly watching the girl. "Marni, and Marni's daughter, and Marni's dance. The first moment you saw her, wasn't she rehearsing this same number?"

"For the first time," he said in weak agreement. "She moved like a rose petal in the wind. I...that's when I knew I..."

Mag nodded, her heart bursting with sympathy. There was no need for poor Nathan to finish his sentence.

"It killed you when she left, didn't it?"

But Nathan couldn't respond: His head was turned from her as busily wiped the tears from his eyes. Confusion flooded his senses.

It was too much.

It was not enough.

It was the perfect amount.

It was perfect.

Until, Mag saw with a pained groan, Luigi and his left feet stomped onto the stage, ruining the wonderful delicacy of the ballet.

"_STOP!_" she hollered, rising indignantly to her feet. "Just _stop_. What do you call that Luigi? You don't call it _'dancing'_, do you?" All life upon the stage stopped, holding its breath in fear. Madame Mag, as she was called, was a beautiful and loving mistress of the stage, until her art was trounced and flounced into a disgrace.

"Shilo, darling, you wonderful," she said kindly, "But Luigi! _Honestly!_ Have I taught you nothing?"

Amber smirked at her partner in crime, their relationship temporarily dissolved. Mag only yelled at idiots, and Amber was in a mood to enjoy every ounce of pain and suffering brought to her arrogant attention.

"Don't look so high and mighty, Amber; you're no better than he is!"

With an indignant gasp, Amber turned furiously to Mag.

"You old _hag! _Who the fuck do you think you are, talking to _me_ like that?"

"And where do you think you are, _Miss Sweet_, to be using that sort of language?"

"I think I'm on my _fucking_ stage," Amber hollered, throwing her arms out, using the word now only a throne in Mag's side and relishing in the older woman's helpless ire. "I think I'm the fucking _star_ of this opera, and I think you're fucking _worthless!_" She couldn't do anything, Mag couldn't do a _damn_ thing: Couldn't _stop_ her, couldn't _control _her, couldn't fucking _touch_ her! "And I think I'm getting the fuck off of this stage,_ this fucking instant!_"

And with that, Amber turned smartly on her heel and stormed off to her private dressing room, savoring her victory and knowing that the new managers soon would come crawling to her door, begging her to come back. And maybe she would...for an additional fee!

Nathan stared dumbly after her, looking helplessly to Mag as if to say, "What now?". Luigi lingered onstage, torn between following Amber and obeying the frighteningly angry Mag. In the end, he decided an angry Amber would be ten times as wrathful, and so marched offstage to join his love...though in reality, he did this with much less arrogance and contempt than would truly have suited the moment, and everyone in the room was made painfully aware of how very scary a raging Mag could be, if only for the show of tough, brave, strong Luigi's pitiful fear.

Mag closed her eyes, clenched fists leaving welts in her palm, jaw tense and she bit down on her rage. Slowly, her composure returned to her, and the Opera House let out an almost audible sigh of relief as it exhaled its anxious breath. Madame Mag was again the motherly, loving woman that they all knew and admired, though the evidence of her frayed nerves was still apparent in her blank expression and somewhat neutral tone.

"Shilo, you know Amber's part, don't you?" she asked, opening her eyes and focusing on her pseudo-daughter. She wanted to show Nathan he had options before he felt he had to crawl back to that class-A bitch. "Why don't you sing the love song from act two for Nathan, dear?"

Shilo's lips parted, as if she were about to speak, only to emit a muted sound.

She took a moment to recollect her senses and focus both her energy and thoughts into performing vocally a song that belonged to the one and only Miss. Amber Sweet. She was presently enraged, no more so than Mag herself, but if Amber were to hear her love song being sung by another performer and _not_ herself, she would be eternally displeased.

If she were to hear Shilo, Amber would devour anyone and everyone—primarily Shilo.

"Yes ma'am, I will." Shilo spoke quietly as she felt herself being carefully eyed with curiosity and suspicion from each body present upon the Opera House's stage. It wasn't the most pleasant feeling, though it encouraged her to rise high above the speculations others might have been hiding as she moved towards center stage.

Shilo exhaled, releasing the pullulating nerves into the blinding light. Inconspicuously, she glanced up at the catwalk; Graverobber was leaning against the metal bars, watching her with gentle eyes. He smiled warmly, wanting to reassure her from afar. Her attention was then swiftly brought back to Mag, who gave her a small smile and certain nod.

Relaxed, Shilo smiled- a way of thanking them both in a moment so crucially important-as she let one last breath escape her lips. In the following moment, Shilo freed the words of a foreboding love song. Each consonant, each vowel, rolled of her tongue in its pursuit to attain the audience's attention with their mesmerizing sound, leaving only the elevated taste of bittersweet emotions in Shilo's mouth.

Her voice was tender and almost delicately fragile as she sang.

"_La felicità, Segreto fra di noi. Tu mi prenderai. Il mio destino in ma no a te._"

Such a melody rang serenely about the Opera House, the Italian words slipping past her lips as if it were being fluently spoken.

Shilo's voice, her features highlighted magnificently with the bright beam of light, and her presence that radiated even brighter than the spotlight that focused heavily on her resonated with pure innocence as she continued to paint a "_Storia d'Amore"._

"_Tu sei la mia, Grande pazzia."_

It was _beautiful_.

It felt beautiful to her. It felt truthful.

"_Storia d'amore, noi. Storia d'amore, noi,_" her voice implemented a decrescendo as the piece came to an end, her eyes opening before a silenced crowd.

Mag proffered to Shilo a heartfelt smile of exultation: Where Shilo had gained such amazing vocal talent, she had no idea, but the girl had performed beautifully. Nathan stared at her, slack-jawed with awe, glassy-eyed with memory; Graverobber smiled in his sad little way, feeling bittersweet rejoice as he realized that with one song, the pale angel onstage had irrevocably claimed what little there was of his heart that was not her's already. The rest of the world was still coming back down to earth, the flight of fancy the song created slowly fading, like the end of a drug-induced dream. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that little Shilo was, at long last, more than a challenge to the monopoly of the stage that was Amber Sweet.

The sweet illusion of the song's bubble was pierced by a mangled scream, a hoarse sound that echoed forcibly through the house from Amber's dressing room. The occupants of the Opera startled, staring around them, wildly trying to figure -out what was going on. Unseen by anyone but Shilo, Graverobber mouthed three solemn syllables: Opera Ghost.

With the second and third piercing screams, each more faded and hoarse then its predecessor, Luigi was found lurching out the wings, his fly undone and his hair in disarray. One could say that Amber worked fast, if Luigi's flushed face and heavy breathing were anything to judge off of. He cast wildly around, staring blindly through the performers, until his crazed eyes flung themselves into the audience and found Mag.

"Help her!" he hollered, motioning frantically back toward the source of the screaming. "Help her, dammit!"

"Help who with what?" Mag inquired calmly, knowing that projecting a mien of patience and tranquility was the only way to circumnavigate total disaster.

"Amber!" he howled, stumbling forward once more to get closer to the Madame. "H-her voice...her throat...!"

Before she could ask for a better explanation, Mag saw another figure stumble onto the stage, grasping the proscenium arch and doubling over, one hand to their throat. It was none other than Miss Sweet herself, clawing at her throat and taking ragged gasps of air, teary, hateful eyes glaring up at Mag from beneath her auburn fringe.

"Help...me...damn you," she rasped, nearly choking on her own words. "Can't speak...throat too tight...breathing...ugh!" She fell to her knees, coughing and gasping, no longer the cocky and dramatic diva, but a woman in great suffering. Mag quickly ascended to the stage, kneeling gently before the distasteful starlet and using her motherly hands to check the girl's cheeks and forehead: Flushed, but otherwise she showed no symptoms of illness, and the flush was almost certainly one of exertion. Amber looked out, past Mag's shoulder, and locked eyes with Shilo.

"...bitch...," she muttered before her eyes rolled up, her head lolling on a limp neck as she gracelessly fell backwards, clawing hands hitting the stage with a thump. Mag checked her pulse and breathed a sigh of relief: Amber was breathing, and her heartbeat was still there. In fact, her breathing was much less labored, as though the act of fighting for her words had caused the problem in the first place.

Graverobber had rushed down to the stage and now approached Mag, kneeling beside the wise woman to await instructions.

"Take Miss Sweet to her dressing room," she told him, busily rearranged Amber's robe so her undergarments, which had been presenting themselves openly during her dramatic struggle, were no longer showing. She glanced briefly into his face, the sidelong swipe of her eyes telling him to investigate and clean-up the room while he was in there, to protect both Amber and Luigi's not-so-well-kept secret as well the better concealed truth the dance mistress and the stage technician hid from the others. "Then go get Mr. Largo and bring him here."

Graverobber nodded, once, assenting to all things Mag had instructed him to do, verbally and otherwise. Gingerly, he lifted Amber from the ground and carried her easily backstage, like the beloved plaything of a well-behaved child.

The performers were edging uneasily into quite mutterings, musing on what had just passed before their eyes, when they heard a ruckus from above them, on the catwalk: The clipped click of heels striding from one side of the structure to the other. All eyes rose and widened in terror as they took in the flowing black shadow of a dark cape. Halfway across, the shrouded figure carelessly flung out a small white package, which fluttered daintily downward and touched the ground sweetly just as the figure disappeared and the clicking stopped.

"The Opera Ghost," whispered one of the terrified chorus girls, and the rest of the performers held their breath and stepped further upstage, determined to escape the implied menace of the white envelope that laid serenely on the aisle, waiting innocently to be picked up and read.

"Nathan," Mag called softly, rising to her feet, pale blue-green eyes fixed on the envelope.

Nathan was new, unknowing of the threat that had just passed overhead. He stared uncomprehendingly at the performers, paying particular attention to Mag. Her emotionless face frightened him more than their fright: It was not the same emotionlessness she took on when angry, but the one she donned when secretly petrified. Cautiously, he bent down and picked up the envelope, turning it over in his hands. One side was smooth and blank; the other held only a seal of red wax, a giant skull pressed into it. Fear threw chills up and down his side as he opened the envelope with slow, steady hands, knowing that he could not allow the performers to see his dread.

"'Dear sirs,'" he read aloud, green eyes haltingly passing over the lines of script therein. "'It is my pleasure to welcome you to...to my opera house. I am most displeased with the casting choices made by Terrance: He had not the brilliance I hope very dearly, for your own sakes, you possess. As such, I have taken care of his worst choice by far...and I hope you shall do a much better job running my opera house. I would like to remind you that my salary is due by the end of the week, and I require my usual box for your latest opera. Sincerely, the Opera Ghost.'" Curiously, he looked to Mag. "Salary?"

"Fifty thousand francs a month," she replied numbly, eyes glazed over.

"And a box?"

"Box five." Like she was unaware that her lips were moving.

"Is he truly a ghost if he needs a salary and a box?" He was incredulous. Really, these demands...they were so ridiculous! But a trembling chorus girl stepped hesitantly forward, large eyes brimming with tears as she shook, voice low and quavering.

"No, monsieur. He is something much, much worse."


	6. Four: Searching For Clues

**Chapter Four: Searching for Clues**

Graverobber, having taken Amber back to her dressing room, tidied it up to hide the beginning of her passionate moment with Luigi, scoured it for clues-he found none, unsurprisingly-and fetched Rotti-who had scowled at him and announced he would be there "in a moment"-choose to take himself quickly to Shilo's side.

"It was the Ghost," he whispered in her ear, voice low, all care for decorum lost. He took her wrist gently in his hand and tugged her forward. "Come with me, help me find _something_, at least. There has to be something in Amber's dressing room, something I'm missing."

Shilo followed amenably though stunned by Graverobber's sudden unconcealed movement in lieu of their natural routine-away from the public eye, hidden in the profundity of the shadows which cloaked their secrets from the vast reaches of the Opera House. Yet, upon the befogged stage where chorus girls stood almost pitiably wide-eyed with fright, addled performers shuffled about, and where Mag had adopted an emotionless façade, Graverobber's hand had taken a hold of her wrist, gently eradicating her from the silent chaos that erupted from a retirement announcement, an arrogant starlet, an enchanting love song, a mangled scream, a fluttering black cape, and an innocent, unrelenting, white envelope.

Such events had happened at a terribly nimble speed, bemusing anyone who happened to have watched the scene from start, as the seams began to fray, until the very end where all that had been fabricated finally became completely unraveled, revealing a couple things to those fairly new to the Opera House: Amber Sweet was an arrogant Prima Donna, Luigi her accomplice, and the affirmed, bone-chilling presence of the ever clever Opera Ghost.

The ingenious Opera Ghost who might have had something, _everything_, to do with the horrid pain Amber had suffered a mere second ago. The way both Luigi and Amber had made their graceless entrances, anxiety coating their every move and fear casting a formidable shadow upon their features—if their discomposed clothing and heavy breathing didn't read "fear" well enough— made the need to find any clues all the more important.

Shilo stifled a shudder.

She stayed quiet as she trailed behind Graverobber who stalked forward, purpose filling his stride. His back was straight and stiff. The way he shook his head slightly, but firm enough to express his agitation, made Shilo's only inclination all the more right: Graverobber was frustrated that _he _couldn't even scope one meager clue.

"We'll find something..." Shilo halted suddenly, a few steps from Graverobber, as his hand released her wrist. He let loose a low, dark chuckle, which rumbled in accordance to her comment as he moved forward to push the mahogany doors, letting them fall inward on silent hinges.

"Lady's first," he said, bowing at the waist with a flourishing gesture of his hand, as if to motion her through. He looked up, and his eyes held a playfully obeisant attitude, only to be replaced by the seriousness of the matter as they both stepped into Amber's private dressing room, doors closing behind them.

The room had an antique décor.

The walls were a beautiful crimson color covered by delicate frames which held paintings of none other than Amber. Outlining majority of the room were bouquets of flowers with both dark and light colors, but only of the most feminine bud. The most outrageous embellishment in the room was the small table where sweets laid untouched, a tempting decoration for the famished newcomers, lunch being withheld until the rehearsals end. The room, in essence, had an uncanny resemblance to Marie Antoinette's own.

In the middle of all things Amber laid Amber herself, sprawled across a velvet white chaise lounge with a brilliant gold contour. Shilo couldn't help but pity her, as she was unconscious and without a voice. Despite Amber's cruel and despicable attitude, no one should ever have to experience that sort of pain.

Brushing the incident from her mind, Shilo skimmed the room for any obvious evidence, running her hands over plush fabrics, crystal vases, and virtually every other intricate detail of the room only to come up empty-handed.

Both Graverobber and Shilo rummaged through the room, careful not to damage any delicate material, but still thoroughly enough. Much of their effort though was proven worthless, for neither one found anything of much use.

The room was absolutely _normal, _at least by Amber's standards.

Slumped against the wall, Shilo locked eyes with Graverobber, who let a steaming sigh fill the peaceful silence that came after the clamor of fabric against fabric against skin. Shilo felt her own patience wearing thin, dumbfounded by how clean the area had been.

"Nothing," she breathed just as Amber's eyes fluttered open and her doors swung open, allowing two new figures—Rotti and Luigi—to step in.

"What's all this nonsense?" Rotti boomed, marching past the still-slumping Graverobber as Shilo staggered to her feet. Luigi gave Shilo a hard glare, and Graverobber an even harder one: He was most displeased to find these two unwelcomed guests in his lover's private lair. "What's all this about ghosts and not being able to sing?"

"Ghost."

"_Excuse_ me?" Rotti snarled, spinning about to glower at the exhausted stage hand.

"Ghost, not 'ghosts'. There's only one Ghost."

Rotti growled, unamused and uncaring.

"And the _singing, _Miss Sweet?"

Amber pushed herself into an indignant sitting position, face turning red with rage. Angrily, she jabbed a finger at herself, Luigi-who turned pale with fright, unsure of his lover's intent-and at the untouched chocolates on the table, before giving the international choking sign and finally throwing her hands up in a gesture that simply said "It's all over". Rotti's eyes followed the movements unblinkingly, before he turned to Luigi.

"What is she saying?" he demanded of the younger man. Luigi's jaw dropped and rose, a fish out of water, uncomprehendingly. Angrily, Amber repeated her charade, murder in her eyes as she locked them with his.

"She, uh...we were supposed to go to the chocolate shop and-"

With a muffled scream, Amber stood up and repeated her charade with vigor and venom.

"She was choking on a chocolate-"

Apparently fed up, Amber lunged at her lover with ferocious speed, wrapping her long-nailed hands around his throat. Graverobber jumped to his feet and pulled the petite diva off of her luckless love and held her, feet dangling off the ground, until she stopped thrashing. He set her back down on the chaise lounge, knowing better than to her allow her anywhere near Luigi.

"I think," Shilo said timidly, stepping into the center of the room, whereupon Amber glared daggers in her directions and Rotti seemed only mildly surprised to find yet another person in the supposedly private dressing room, "Amber means that she and Luigi came back here, and she took a chocolate, and lost her voice."

Graverobber's eyebrows shot into his hairline.

"Thought you didn't find anything kid," he muttered, walking over to inspect the chocolates there. His face settled into a mask of disappointment. "There's still twelve here, Shi. Looks like your theory's a bust."

"She's right," Luigi huffed, crossing his arms. "I bought them from a bakery, he gave me a baker's dozens. Amber had one, and we were starting to..." His cheeks blushed and he quickly abandoned that train of thought. "Well, that's not important. Amber had one, I didn't, and now she can't sing. Or speak."

Rotti closed his eyes and tipped his head back, fingers massaging his temple. This was a disaster! There was no easy fix...or was there? His eyes snapped open and trained on Shilo.

"You sing?" Without even waiting for an answer, he plunged on. "Amber, take this performing period to regain your voice, hmm? We'll let Miss...Shi, was it? We'll let Miss Shi take this role for now and see how you feel about the next production."

And with that, he strode regally out of the room, leaving four bitter enemies to figure it out. The silence grew heavy and stretched on, possibly for a millennium, before finally it was broken.

"Guess that's our cue, 'Miss Shi'," Graverobber said with an ironic smile, locking the girl's arm with his and striding merrily out of the room, cheekily whistling the tune of "_Storia d'Amore_".


	7. Five: Alone In The Shadows

**Chapter Five: Alone in the Shadows**

With not a single soul present, the stage stood silent. It was all too quiet apart from a sweet tune that resonated throughout the Opera House from behind the stage where the shadows grew thick. The empty theatre would have been condemned to a feeling of wariness—distastefully ominous in its dreary state of lonesomeness—if it hadn't been for that melody: quiet and tender, yet bittersweet and foreboding.

How Graverobber made such a dark place so vividly pleasant to Shilo was only painstakingly obvious to her as they lurked behind the stage, their arms still coupled and Graverobber still cheekily whistling away to "_Storia d'Amore."_ The feelings she harbored for him were hers alone to keep and just another secret for the shadows to watch over, for they concealed secrets all too well. Such concealed secrets—how her pale, ivory cheeks flushed a ruby red, how her smile glowed with earnest and sensual feelings, or how her eyes neglected to make the slightest contact with Graverobber—was purely by virtue of his company, and his alone.

The closer their friendship grew, the more she fell for him. Moreover, Graverobber had already taken over her heart. To fall anymore in love with him would be entirely implausible.

But as they stepped onto the catwalk, their sanctuary, she found that loving him more was, perhaps, credible.

Brushing such thoughts, Shilo undesirably unhooked their arms and distanced herself from Graverobber. She inhaled, letting each distinct aroma from within the Opera House fill her senses with welcoming fragrances.

"I can see why you love it up here," she sighed, perching herself on the metal pipes at the very end of the catwalk to gaze down bellow at nothing but stillness, "and you can see anything without anything seeing you. It's no wonder you know things most everyone doesn't."

"Yeah," Graverobber murmured, leaning against the catwalk, his sad smile intact.

A comfortable silence lingered about the two.

In that moment, it was peaceful and any worries were put to rest, though it couldn't last any longer. Shilo knew it was time for them to depart. After the mishaps that day, Mag would no doubt worry if she weren't able to find Shilo, which would only fuel Mag's temper.

Shilo let herself down, straightening her clothing before turning to face Graverobber.

"I, uh, Graverobber…" her quiet voice stumbled, an awfully audible mistake in the dead air upon the catwalk.

"I know kid." He smirked, letting out a throaty chuckle.

Shilo smiled, hiding her conflicted thoughts as they either begged her to take such a wonderful opportunity and expose the emotions that roared with fervor inside her or pleaded her otherwise, for an unrequited love was all it could be.

Clenching her fist, she made her way past Graverobber and down the catwalk to trek back to her dressing room, defeated by her doubt.


	8. Six: The Angel Appears

**Chapter Six: The Angel Appears**

Shadows danced on the bare stone walls in the flickering light of the fire at the mantel piece, sometimes made to dance double by the many lit candles holding vigil around the room. In spite of the warm, rich light of the flames, the room was cold. The stone, it seemed, took more to the chill than to anything, and Shilo could almost see her breath as it puffed out before her wondering eyes. Her tones refused to touch the freezing floor, already bluing with the cold, and her hair felt like a fine silk scarf as she carefully brushed it, the smooth silvery back of her brush glinting happily off the inky black surface. It cascaded down her back, ebony falling from her ivory shoulders and tickling the light peach color of her dressing gown.

When she was younger, she used to marvel at the severe nudity of her room, the naked gray walls leading the young mind to see a princess locked in the castle, her mother the queen gone and her knight in shining armor not yet mounted on his perfect white stallion. Over the years, she had kept the room tidy, barely lived in: It wasn't here where she lived, where she was truly alive, and so it didn't matter to her if the room reflected her wishes. On the mantel, surrounded by candles, was an old photograph of her mother, one Mag had given her as a sort of house-warming present. Across from that, the plain bed found in every chamber on the upper floor of the living quarters, where all the aspiring young chorus girl ballerinas lived in a sort of community all their own. To the left of the bed was the vanity where Shilo now sat, it's surface bare save for a bottle of inexpensive perfume and a single dying red rose in a vase, it's mirror faded and spotty from years of being passed down from chorus girl to chorus girl. Behind that was a simple mahogany dresser filled with Shilo's few pitiful belongings, and behind that, the full-length mirror that Shilo, like any proud owner of any rarity, kept spotless and in perfect order. The mirror was quite elegant, curly at the edges and almost flowering at the border. It was very firmly attached to the wall, but Shilo didn't mind: This only meant jealous girls, like Amber and a few others, had no hopes of stealing it.

"Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine...," Shilo chanted, carefully stroking her hair one hundred times to make it soft and silky. "One hundred!"

With a tiny smile, Shilo turned from the mirror to stare at the only other decoration in the room for which she had any lasting affinity: A beautiful portrait of a very handsome angel flying from the pipes of an organ, soaring with a divine smile as if his wings were made of the most beautiful music in existence. The painting had also been in the room when Shilo inherited it all those years ago, and was the only reason she had refused to move out when the offer came. She could have taken the painting with her, but something told her it belonged in this room, and she belonged with it. It was intuition, perhaps, but it was so much more than just that.

Perhaps it was silly for a girl of her age-a young woman, really, on the very cusp of full womanhood-to believe, but Shilo thought her mother had sent her here with more company in mind than just Mag. Not that Mag wasn't enough for her now, but ten years ago, when she was still so young...back then, Mag wasn't enough, and the Graverobber hadn't even been working here. She had been alone, or so she thought...

_It was late at night on her very first night living in the Opera House, and young Shilo was restless. Nightmares still made a habit of frequenting her imagination, and a particularly troublesome one had woken her not but hours before in a cold sweat, a muffled scream still on her trembling lips. Unsure of where else to go, she lit a candle and peered down the hall. She was at the very end of the corridor, and if she went left, she could fly down the stairs and be in Mag's room in no time. But waking Mag at this no-doubt ungodly hour would be terribly rude, and Shilo had not yet known the woman long enough to feel comfortable asking such favors. There was no turning right...but a very mysterious door tantalized her vision directly across the hall from her, set further back into the deep shadows than the doors of the slumbering ballerinas-in-training. Curiosity, she knew, was a sometimes fatal flaw, but there was no mercy for a sleepless young girl in the middle of the night at the big Opera House anyway, so she felt relatively certain that no fate beyond that door could be any worse than wakefulness among sleepers._

_Candle in hand, she took a deep breath, glancing to the portrait at her side one last time for strength. The beautiful angel smiled at her, as if to give his blessing. Eyes forward, she slipped into the hall and disappeared in the shadows on the other side of the mystery door._

_She was on a high wooden platform, suspended above the darkness below, and was surprised to see that there was a faint light even when she shielded her candle. Creeping close to the railings at the edge of the platform, she looked down into the floating shadow as it was pierced by a single light, a tall candle dripping wax onto the stage far below. She smiled in pure, innocent delight, believing another lost soul to be awake in the darkness of the hour, perhaps even one able to comfort her in her time of need. On surprisingly steady feet for a girl of her age and situation, she raced to the other side of the platform, swiftly descending the stairs on silent feet. The grand drape which separated the workshop and backstage from the rest of the grand platform had not yet been dropped, allowing sneaky Shilo a clear path all the way to the source of the light. The candle was old and magnificent, with years of waxy buildup crusted hard on it's side, it's light somehow warmer and more comforting than any Shilo had witnessed before. She drew closer, enchanted by the light, only to trip on her own nightgown. She flung her arms desperately to regain her balance, accidently dousing her light before pulling the large candlestick down with her as well. Trapped in total darkness and surrounded by her fear, she began to cry quietly, for who knew what kind of monsters lurked in the shadows, waiting to gobble naughty young girls up?_

_Something brushed past her in the total dark, and she shrieked, pulling back._

_"P-Please, monsiuer monster, don't eat me!" she cried blindly into the gloom. The candlestick slithered out from under her side, causing her to scream, her tiny heart racing faster and faster as fear paralyzed her. A few feet away, a match was struck, and the large candle was relit. Temporarily blinded by the light, and still wholly consumed by her fear, Shilo flung her pale arms over her face, shielding her eyes from the horrible monster that probably just wanted some candlelight to go with his yummy dinner of free-range little girl._

_"This'a light should be kept lit at'a all times," said a funnily-accented voice from somewhere near the candle. "Otherwise, the evil'a spirits will'a get in." Timidly, Shilo peaked through the crack between her arms, unwilling to face the monster head-on but curious to see if it's face was as beautiful as it's funny-sounding voice. Near the candle stood a boy-or was it a man?-quite a bit taller than tiny eight-year-old Shilo. He was slim-built, but strong; after all, he had lifted the entire candlestick, all by himself! His dark hair was carefully styled back into the ponytail that was the height of the fashion of the day, and he wore very dark, very rick clothing. What she could see of his skin was very pale, like her's, but his face was entirely covered by a beautifully crafted mask: It was porcelain and white, with black-rimmed eyeholes and delicate features and a set of full red lips which never moved. The gold-dusted mask reminded Shilo of an exceptionally radiant woman, which somehow did not seem at odds with the young man. In her awed observation, her protective arms had slipped entirely from her face, leaving her as exposed to the stranger's gaze as he was to her's. For a time, the pair took one another in: Then, as if on a whim, the boy-or man, whichever he was-offered her his hand._

_She gripped it, tiny fingers wrapping only partially around his as he hauled her gently to her feet._

_"You are'a no longer scared of me?" he asked, still holding her hand. Suddenly shy, Shilo shook her head, pulling a little to retrieve her hand. He let it go, chuckling, and she could hear the smile in his voice as he continued. "It looks'a like you are."_

_"I'm not," she replied defiantly, angry that the pretty boy thought she was lying. Laughing, he just shook his head again, walking around her to pick up her tiny candle._

_"How old are'a you, cara?" he asked, holding out her candle. "Sei? Sette?"_

_With a tiny, audacious scowl, she snatched the candle from his hand, answering his question even if he was going to speak in secret code she didn't know._

_"Eight."_

_"Otto?" He seemed surprised. "And brave for you age, too." She blushed a little, oddly thrilled with the compliment. He took it all in, silently, then held out his hand. "Give me you candle, tesoro." She handed it over, wondering where he had learned the secret language. He used it so carelessly, as if he didn't care if anyone learned it, and she wondered if that meant he'd teach it to her._

_Reaching the candle up, he lit it's wick from the flame of the big candle and handed it back to her. Shil got the impression that he was thinking, but of what, she could not fathom._

_"Go now, cara. Go back to'a you room, back to'a you dreams. Leave'a the sleepwalking to the uneasy." She blushed again, though this time it was a hotter, darker blush that graced her pale young cheeks. Looking shyly up into the pretty boy's face and locking eyes with the pair behind the mask, she saw something she didn't understand, something strange. Somewhere, deep down in those odd violet eyes, Shilo glimpsed a real-life monster, something that was very angry with her and maybe still wanted to eat her._

_"Are you a monster?" she asked, trying to get a better look at the thing in the pretty boy's eyes._

_"Si tesoro, I am'a un terribile monstro." But the scary thing disappeared, and in its place was a thing Shilo had seen many times in her mother's eyes before the older woman passed on._

_"I don't think so," she announced bravely, holding out her free hand to the boy with the secret language. He looked at it, and she could see his confusion. Blushing a bit again, but with much more confidence, she clarified, "I'm scared to back to my room alone," still standing with her expectantly outstretched hand. Without waiting for his answer, she gently wrapped her small, nimble fingers around his and tugged._

_With a put-upon sigh, the boy with the pretty woman's mask led Shilo back up the stairs and all the way to the mystery door._

_"Come on," she whispered, not wanting to wake Amber, who's room was just beyond the thin wall near the door. It was darker up here, far away from the glow of the second candle, and Shilo could only see the dead, empty eye sockets of the mask that titled down in her direction. "We have to go all the way to room."_

_The eye sockets regarded her silently, and very suddenly, the little girl knew this boy-man-needed to see the painting in the room, needed to tell her who it was of and why an angel wanted a piano-thing anyway. Tugging again on his hand to keep him with her, Shilo struggled to hold the candle upright and still open the door. With another tiny musical sigh, the boy pushed past her, his mask fairly glowing in the new darkness as he opened the door and let her through, obediently following her into her room. He found he couldn't help but cater to the child's every whim, stooping low to rekindle the fire in the mantel place and sitting beside her on the tiny bed that her tiny frame couldn't even fill._

_Once seated, she recaptured his hand and, with a tiny yawn, told him to lay down beside her. In a baby's whisper, with half-shut eyes, Shilo recounted the tale of the day, from arriving in Paris to settling down in the Opera House, ending it with her recurring nightmare. The face concealed by the mask pitied the child, wanted to protect it from all harm and love it as it had never been loved before._

_"But why did'a you go to the stage and not to'a you godmother, cara?"_

_"Because the Angel told me to," she muttered sleepily._

_"Angelo?"_

_"Mmm-hmm." She bobbed her tiny head slowly in agreement before opening her wide brown eyes, and pointing a tiny ivory finger just over his head. He turned, and was apparently taken aback by what he saw: The familiar painting of a handsome angel soaring up from the pipes of an organ, his divine spirit set free by the beauty of its music. The small brow furrowed in sudden confusion and the hand slipped gently out of his. Two sweet hands gently took hold of his jaw to either side of the mask, pulling the face to their owner for a better view. The innocent eyes flicked back and forth, to the painting and then to the mask and back again._

_Same black hair, same pale skin, same beautiful face._

_"Is the Angel your daddy?"_

_"No, cara."_

_"Oh. Are you the Angel?" He was silent. Looking into his eyes, which were warmed by the far-off firelight, Shilo knew her secret story would be safe with him, and that maybe he needed it...after all, if he was-as she suspected-the Angel, he was an awfully sad angel. "Mommy used to tell me about him, the Angel. That's him in the picture, isn't it? The Angel of Music? He's the beautiful angel God made to be the creator of all music, and to look after all musicians. That's why I know Mommy's safe, because the Angel of Music is with her." A poorly stifled yawn, and the tiny hand crept back up to capture his. "Mommy said she'd send him to me someday. I want to be a beautiful singer, just like Mommy." Another yawn, and the thread of her thoughts began to fray as sleep gently closed her eyes._

_"Are you the angel in the picture?"_

_"Si, cara," he whispered softly, pulling the girl close and stroking her hair lightly. "I am'a l'Angelo della Musica."_

_She didn't need to speak his secret angel language to understand what he was saying._

_"I knew it," she sighed happily, snuggling against the strange, wingless Angel. He felt her tiny lips smile against his chest as she dropped off to sleep._

And almost every night since, Shilo had been visited by the beautiful and strange angel. He had taught her to sing like a true diva, and she knew her mother would be proud. He was a kind spirit that listened with a sympathetic ear to her troubles and her worries and magically took them away with his brilliant and articulate voice. She told him everything...well, almost everything. Shilo knew it was selfish, but she wanted the Angel to never leave her, and so she knew he could never be told about her feelings for Graverobber. He knew what sort of person Graverobber was, and Shilo feared that if he learned she wanted him as more than just a friend and confidant, she might lose her sweet Angel.

In the years since that first encounter, she had learned the Angel's secret language was actually simply Italian.

_"But Angel, why do you speak Italian?"_

_"Is not'a the Vatican under God's holy reign, bella?" the good-humored voice replied. "Why should I not speak'a italiano?"_

She had done her very best to learn the language, if only to understand the pet names he so frequently used. She was his obedient and attentive pupil, and he was her inspiring and genius master. Always his visits were a surprise, a secret kept between the two (and God, or so she imagined, and perhaps her mother); never had she been able to call him to her, for he was a gift that she could not control.

If ever there was a night Shilo prayed for him to visit, however, it was tonight. But the hour was late, and it seemed the Angel had no interest in visiting her this evening. She heaved a weary sigh, disappointed by his absence, and was rising to go to her bed when that rich, warm, familiar voice washed over her and filled her with all the joy in the world.

_"Fai quello che vuoi,  
>Ritorni sem pre qui,<br>Io, io non vorrei,  
>Ma non so dir ti mai di no..." <em>

She waited respectfully for the last note to finish ringing, her heart soaring high in the heaven's above as the divine voice echoed in her chamber and entranced her mind, body, and soul. When at last it died, she opened her eyes, and her face split into a wide grin.

"Oh, Angel! That was marvelous!"

"I heard'a you singing it today, _tesoro_. May I ask'a why?"

And the whole story came gushing out, without so much as a pause for breath. She told the Angel of Terrance's retirement, and the new managers, and Amber's tantrum, the singing of the song, Amber's voice disappearing, and the best of all of the day's events, her being cast in the lead of the new opera! The Angel chuckled, pleased by her enthusiasm and amused by her eager tale.

"Then should not'a we start the real work, _cara?_ Sing'a through you scales for me."

The Opera House had become motionless, every inhabitant within clambering off to bed as slumber gently coaxed many—the young chorus girls more than some—to do so following such an eventful day. The halls were then made placid as every individual was presently dormant and not a soul stirred within, or rather dared not to trifle _with_, the Cimmerian shades of the House. Sharp movements, however, were found where candles stood blazing, stirring the shadows into frenzied motion. Such shadows, dancing upon walls and flickering about in tender flight, fabricated a beautiful moving panorama. It too had constructed an immaculate façade which murmured with a dark delicacy that opaque venues were nonthreatening, but both luring and mysterious. Playful even.

Perhaps such a manifestation was the sole beauty of the dark: how the waltzing shadows tempted a body to approach and indulge in knowledge not visible in the light. Yet, for all one knows, that may very well be the genuine aptitude and beauty of light: the strength to blind darkness and save one from the foreboding shadows.

Though within the theatre, where all was empty and both silence and shadows were left to be one's only companions, the weak candlelight could be nothing but bleary. As the artificial light flitted, shadows continued their enticing dance and began to lurk taller and more baleful from the ceilings to the floors and into the open house full of nullity and its plus one.

Within the empty void, slumped in the first row to the stage, Graverobber motionlessly waited for the throaty echo of _"Storia d'Amore" _to cease as it lazily resonated well throughout the house.

He chuckled as the Opera House reverted to its silent disposition, knowing all too well that the tune's quality could not compare to Shilo's performance. Her tender voice had mesmerized all who stood by, entranced them by its pure sonance, and left an everlasting impression of the girls' ever-growing talent. Most of all, it had captivated his heart, barring no one little piece. All of it was Shilo's and he couldn't bare the budding emotions to her.

An anguishing sigh aroused the dead air, the pitch dispersing into thin air and parroting his bittersweet groan before, at long last, suppressing.

_"Tu sei la mia dolce pazzia," _a soft, sad smile melted Graverobber's features, his chest constricted as his thoughts wandered into all things Shilo. He was overcome by the many thoughts that flowed incessantly and rigid with pain. Such thinking protruded his current sanctuary and peace of mind.

But he knew better than to linger for too long alone and unprotected within the shadows of the Opera House.

He wouldn't idle for forever and a day, for he dared not to squander with the dark. He wouldn't want to test _Him_. Being the one to promulgate certain rumors, he knew better than any other how to avoid encounters with the Opera Ghost.

"Alright," he murmured, rising from his seat and ascending the steps to the stage. He had completed his pending night obligations given to him by Madame Mag: righted the stage and scouted the theatre for any impermissible intruders. All that had been left to do was blow out the fiery candles—the only source of warmth within the cold, dark theatre-save the tall Ghost Light, which protected the theatre from spiritual harm (and clearly didn't work at that, seeing as they had had the Opera Ghost for many year without fail, Ghost Light or otherwise). With each humble puff of air, the artificial light on stage diminished, as both the smoke that fluttered into the air and the dank wax hardening where it had melted stood as the only evidence that the candles had even been lit.

As Graverobber emerged atop the catwalk, a heavy revelation had emerged: he had enclosed himself within the theatre. Off to his right, the single candle that was presently alive and well, and shall always stay as so, was his only source of light. He could not leave the theatre unless he was to trek through the pitch-black, risking his life and putting it at the mercy of the Opera Ghost.

"Damn it!" Agitation settled in, his hands seizing the metal bars of the catwalk—frigid against his warm hands.

In a mere second, Graverobber's eyes rested on the door that lay just feet away. His mind reeled at the familiarity of the door, remembering how Shilo slipped through the mahogany door on occasion when their confidential meetings had stretched for far too long.

It led to the chorus girls' hallway, the one that housed the all the aspiring ballerinas. And it was completely off-limits to men.

He stood, immobile, contemplating his options. If he were to choose to venture into the darkened stage, he would, perhaps, not re-surface. He might, if luck played his cards, be found at dawn… bereft of life. Nonetheless, if he were to take the door, he may risk encountering the beautiful dame and her fearsome rage. Her wrath was not to be taken lightly, as seen earlier that day.

With a breathy sigh, Graverobber took his chances with the door. If he were to be caught by Madame Mag, his life was not at stake…hopefully. With one soft pull, the door opened on quiet hinges. Graverobber, vice being welcomed by the dame, was otherwise embraced by a tranquil sound. It was a voice that did wonders to his heart.

It was Shilo's voice.

His eyes closed wanting to listening to and indulge on such a warm tune. It was magnificent. It was beautiful. It was love.

And it was abruptly stopped, replaced by a man's voice.

"Stop, if'a you please." Shilo complied immediately, anxious to hear what advice the Angel had to offer. He was always like that: Very polite and gentlemanly, even when scolding her. Almost like he didn't want to hurt her. His voice was soothing and calm, a gift after the hectic day, and his tones were as warm and as rich as ever they had been. Listening to him gave Shilo chills sometimes; the closest she had ever described the feeling his voice evoked was a warm bubble-bath, luxurious and warm and always welcome, mysterious when you couldn't see to the bottom, but always pleasant and clean-feeling, leaving one warm and satisified for hours after the event itself was over.

"When'a you sing, _tesora_, it is not enough to merely _feel'a_ the music; you must _live_ it, must understand it. Like'a so," and the eager young pupil was gifted with the magnificent Angel's flawless voice as reverberated through her chamber and her heart, never louder than his speaking voice, but immensely more pleasurable. Shilo closed her eyes in rapture. Even during their lessons, it was not often the Angel sang for her. And she loved it always, for his wondrous voice was even more amazing when glided to her delicate ears on the wings of music.

"You like'a that, _cara?_" Flushed, Shilo nodded shyly. The voice was full of amusement, and somehow the Angel saw her, for he chuckled when she nodded and continued. "Try it youself."

Lustily, Shilo sang back to the Angel, letting the sound become her life.

"This'a song, it must be understood. When you feel _amore_, _mia bella_, you do not always have it returned, _capire?"_ Shilo nodded, thinking of her own unrequited love. Unseen, the Angel's heart melted as he, too, contemplated love. "So when'a you sing this song, you must think of'a the love in you heart, and'a the pain in you life. You must wed them, _bella, _and use'a their child to sing'a you song. Try again."

And she did, and the secret Angel smiled to hear his pupil doing so much better. The time was not yet right, but soon, he knew, they must meet. There was to discuss then, and much to do before.

Graverobber stifled a grating sigh as he quietly rested his back against Shilo's bitterly cold door through which her dainty voice began anew. The sound of Shilo's ballad was cushioned, though still very much so audible, by the frigid wood that stood between him and the room's two occupants. Contemptuously, he deemed it improper for a young mistress, for a young _Shilo_, to be in the presence of a man within _her_ chamber in the late hours of the night. It was inconceivable to Graverobber how naïve the girl was! Be that as it may, the male voice could have belonged to the tutor Shilo confessed to having every now and then. This "tutor" he heard so little of, Shilo being awfully reserved and consciences enough to not reveal much, had always been voiced with such rapture and admiration on her part.

His brow then furrowed, anxiety corrupting his habitually impassive expression.

He could reasonably assume the man with her was a private tutor…and yet, he could not buy into adjoining at such an hour within her chamber while the Opera House presently dreamed in a fathomless slumber. Having to take it upon themselves to go through such immeasurable lengths seemed for the sake of masking the fact that they are, perhaps, lovers.

Graverobber froze: Not a motion, not a breath.

_Could they be?_

He choked, a muted cough mangling his throat. Such thoughts made his heart palpitate. The bittersweet tune Shilo sang started to claw at his heart as the man within the chamber—inside, with Shilo—indulged in her angelic voice while he stood outside in pain.

Mag emerged from the lavatory with a burning candle in her hand to which she held in front of her as an aid to her vision within the darkened hallway. In the candlelight, her features were soft with somnolence, though she wore a lightened expression for the day was almost done. There was much to dwell on as she gracefully sauntered to her chamber—the last door of the hallway by a tall staircase that led to the chorus girls hallway—being that it had been, for the greater part, a horrid day.

She was, however, very much pleased by one certain event: Miss Amber Sweet was _not_ to perform in this production, and Shilo was to take her place. How her pseudo daughter acquired such a marvelous talent, she knew not.

Mag was certain, though, that Shilo had a growing talent with her blessed voice, just like her mother. And such a _beautiful _voice it was! One could seemingly luxuriate in the tender sound, bewitched by the enchanting tone, which she so profoundly produced.

_Oh_, she could hear it now: the mystifying sound….

No. She most definitely _could _hear it.

Mag paused at the bottom of the stairs. Without question, Shilo was singing. At such a candid sound, Mag closed her eyes and both savored and listened to her heart's content. Until the melody abruptly stopped mid-note, that is. On impulse, the dame ascended the stairs, questioning why her singing had been so suddenly cut off, curiosity luring her to Shilo's chamber just a mere staircase away from where she stood. As she approached the final step, Mag slowed her pace, precaution and confusion filling her heart as Shilo's voice filled the hall once more. Cautiously, Mag rounded the corner, her flickering candle substantially strong enough to reveal a shadow against Shilo's door: Graverobber.

A spiteful rage was born within Mag, fatigue now forgotten, as she stalked towards the slumped figure. How dare he lurk in the girl's corridor? It was beyond her, but if he thought he could get away with any sort of mischief he was conspiring, was gravely wrong.

"What, may I ask, do you think you are doing?" Mag hissed in a low yet threatening whisper as she grabbed a hold of Graverobber by his thick coat.

Aghast, Graverobber could only stare at the beautiful Mag in all her rage. His mind could simply not register an answer in such a crucial and questionable situation for his thoughts were elsewhere as, de novo, Shilo's impeccable voice was hushed before the song could ever completely and fully finish.

The quiet commotion from outside Shilo's door hushed and then finally silenced the girl's wonderful singing. Her Angel forgotten, she crept cautiously toward the door, flinging open to find her wonderful godmother and secret love locked in an odd sort of scuffle, especially considering the time and place the two had chosen for their hushed battle.

"What are you two doing?" she whispered, tugging Mag's hand away from the thick jacket it clutched. Mag leveled a glare at the mysterious man before turning to Shilo.

"Light's out, and _no visitors_," she instructed. Mystified, Shilo shut the door and blew out all the candles, even the one next to her bed, crawling under the covers and listening to the heated argument being held in whispers and hisses outside the door. It sounded for a time that Mag was indignant, and then Graverobber, and the Mag again...and finally Graverobber assented to what all it is she was meant to have said, and the sound of his heavy boots clunked past the hall, down the stairs, and were heard no more. Straining her ears, Shilo heard a disappointed, weary sigh, and then the delicate footsteps of her beloved godmother followed much the same route as Graverobber's, only stopping here and there to check on other girl's in the wing before descending to her own bedroom.

For a time, silence roared in Shilo's room, a black sound accompanied by a black sight, being that her window was far away from streetlamps and the sky overhead was gloomy with night-clouds. Restlessness came to Shilo, causing her to toss and turn as she tried to alleviate the dull ache in her limbs, the need to get up and move. Faintly, she had the feeling that something was amiss, something was forgotten...but what it was, for the life of her, she knew not. The candles were all out, as was evidenced by the encompassing darkness. Her hair was brushed, her clothes neatly tucked away in her wardrobe, her nightly practice done-her practice! The Angel!

"Angel?" she whispered tentatively into the dark, sitting up. "Are you still with me?"

But he was gone, frightened away, no doubt, by the scuffle outside. She quietly cursed herself for having interrupted their lesson, for opening the door. He had left without saying good-bye! He was upset with her, he had to be! What would she do if she offended him? How does one apologize to divine spirits? What would she do if he left her?

Horrible thoughts and doubts plagued her mind, worrying her past tiredness and increasing the restlessness of her limbs until at last she sprang from her bed, unable to keep still. She would practice her dance, that would calm her down, and it was much quieter and less distressing than trying to sing so soon after her folly. But she couldn't rehearse in her room, not without knowing for sure if the apartments under her's were as empty as she suspected.

She sat heavily down on the bed and relit her bedside candle, wanting light as she riddled this out. She had to get up and move, her body demanded it, but it was unsafe and unwise to try anything in her room, as she ran the risk of waking others at the Opera House. Staring into the flame, an idea occurred to her, one which had risen from the back of her most cherished memories: She would go to the stage. She would take her candle and leave for the stage and its Ghost Light, for the place where first she met the Angel, and once there she would work out the restlessness in her limbs and make a proper apology to him.

With her mind thus firmly made up, Shilo donned her dressing gown and, shielding the candle in one hand, quickly crossed the hall to the unlocked door and she world she knew lay beyond it.

With all the skill of a cat, she stealthily moved to the wooden banister and peered into the darkness below. The heavy red velvet curtain which blocked the stage from the view of the audience was, as far as she could tell, opened, but the simpler black curtain which marked the backstage off from the performance area was drawn. It was a world of blackness beyond the feeble light of her candle, all shadows and illusion: But, reasoning that it would be safe-the Opera Ghost never struck twice in a week, let alone a day-she turned and quickly descended the stairs, instinctively seeking the comforting light of the other, larger candle she knew currently held center stage. She was glad even for the weak relief of her own light, as the backstage area would be otherwise impossible to trek through. Her luck and her light finally paid off as she rounded the last corner and left the wings, taking small, almost reverent steps towards the light.

In a moment, the darkness and the quiet turned from menacing to calming, scary to soothing, and Shilo relished the noise as it graced her ears like the finest of music, like the Angel's voice, like the half-forgotten lullaby crooning of her long-dead mother. She allowed the silence to stretch out, a blanket in which she wrapped herself, as she stared at the hypnotic little flame topping the grand Ghost Light. Then she became aware, in a way only those who lived as long as the stage as she had could, of another presence lurking in the audience or on the stage, silently watching her. Her heart hammered in her chest and her breath froze, chills running up and her down her spine as she considered the impossible, considered the presence of the theatre's resident haunt just behind her, sizing her up as prey. She squeezed her eyes shut in a silent prayer, begging the spirit not to kill her as she waited for its unfeeling heart to wrap its hands around her throat and squeeze, or worse yet, throw its mystery noose around her and steal the last of her breath with a cold, inanimate object as opposed to its once-human flesh. But nothing happened, and the fear moved to the back of her mind, allowing her to unthaw as she pondered the presence.

"Angel?" The breathy whisper escaped from her throat almost before she could stop it. "Angel, is that you? I'm so sorry for what happened earlier, I should not have abandoned you..."

But still there was no answer. Who was in the spacious room with her, who was lurking in the darkened shadows? Mag would never have hidden in a million years, and Graverobber's boots were too clunky to allow him such stealth, whatever he may think. Who else did that leave? Most of the inhabitants of the Opera House were not prone to sneaking about, especially not at such an ungodly hour: Even Amber and Luigi knew it best to leave the OG his hours of peace, and to sneak about instead during the wee hours of daybreak. Could it be one of the new managers?

There was a soft gush of cold air as she pondered this possibility, causing her to turn around abruptly. Being unused to such quick movements in the long dressing gown-it being a gift from Mag, given not but three weeks ago as an early birthday present and replacement for the old one Amber had "accidently" torn up-she found her legs wrapped up in the thick material and quickly lost her balance, cascading gracelessly to the floor. In blind panic, she reached for the Ghost Light, but, as it was all those years ago, she succeeded only in putting out both lights, leaving her alone with the nimble stranger, and easy target for the omnipresent ghoul. The mysterious presence drew closer, and this time, Shilo could hear the quiet click of the heels of expensive shoes, growing just a little louder as the unknown entity drew just a little closer. Helpless and blind, she threw her arms protectively over her face and did the only thing she could do.

"Please, whoever you are, don't hurt me!"

There was an amused chuckle from above her, and she became aware that the entity had lowered itself to her level; it's heat could just barely be felt through the material of the dressing gown and her own nightgown, a warm disturbance from behind her.

"This is very familiar, no?"

And she shrieked and pulled away from the warmth as a hand snaked near her hip and lifted the large candlestick into place. She took a deep, shuddering breath, looking wildly about her in the deep shadows, wanting to find the person before he found her again. Directly in front of her and some ways up, a match was struck and lighted with curious ease. She stared, transfixed, as the tiny flame floated up and over and finally lit the waiting candlestick. In the wavering light, the shadows shrank back some, and Shilo was left to stare, ill with fright, at the figure now being illuminated. He was tall, dressed in well-tailored and expensive clothes of dark colors: Black pants, leading to a maroon dress shirt, over which was a black vest with delicate maroon spirals, and a crimson cravat held in pace by a deep onyx pin. Above the cravat, and beneath the cuffs of the beautiful shirt, paled skin glinted in the small light of the candle. The dark hair was neatly styled and sat just above what had to be a horrible prank: The face of a woman, beautifully painted and stretched over the remarkably feminine contours of a face below the skin. But what stood before her couldn't be a woman, the broad shoulders and slim but strong physique saw to that.

The lips were moving, but at this point, Shilo's tired mind and terrified heart were beyond comprehension. With a sigh befitting an aristocrat's fiancée, the girl fell to the ground, eyes rolled up in a dramatic yet fitting faint. The lips stopped moving and instead gave her a small, sad, loving smile.

Shilo came to late the next morning, with the Opera House bustling about in full life. From beyond her door, she could hear other doors slamming and girls rushing to the lavatory and friendly greetings being called down the hall; from below her floor, she could hear Mag's voice giving unintelligible commands and musicians and stage hands alike running to and fro. Her assessment from the night before had been a fair one, for it seemed indeed that the apartments below her's were fully occupied. Soon, she knew, Mag would be making her rounds to make sure all the ballerinas were up and ready fro rehearsals, just as surely as she knew she had a long day ahead of her, since it was her first day in the leading role. But fatigue kept her body heavy in the bed and unwilling to move, and her mind only leisurely made these assertions.

When finally she sat up, arching her back in a glorious stretch that renewed all feeling her outer extremities, she noticed a small piece of parchment, tied tenderly to the foot of her bed with a black satin ribbon.

Curiosity being her Achilles' heel, her climbed over the tangle of sheets that was her bed and untied the ribbon with agile fingers, eager eyes scanning the parchment as it unfurled in her hands. The words written there were done so in an elegant hand, with curls adorning the signature. She could almost envision the skilled hands that had held this parchment before her, the careful procession with which the articulate tongue had chosen the words:

_Mia Bella,  
>It was a pleasure to see you again last night di persona, in person. All is forgiven.<br>Your Humble Tutor,  
>Angelo della Musica<em>

Her heart leapt as she clutch the note to her hopeful, happy, naive breast. Her Angel had forgiven her! The strange sight of the man last night was forgiven: It was her Angel, and she was blessed to have been in his presence, even for so short a period. It never occurred to her that the Angel had aged since their last meeting, perhaps because she had also aged; nor did it occur to her that his face was very much different, for she knew her face was very much different. All that mattered was forgiveness, and the final, physical proof that her kind musical master did, in fact, exist somewhere other than her imagination.

_A/N: Phew! Long chapter...sorry, me and my friend took a while longer than either of us thought to crank this baby out! It's been decided that the flashback/memory at the beginning it the new favorite between us two, but what do you think? :) Share your thoughts, and reviewreviewreview! Things are heating up in Opera Land, and there's more fun to come! TTFN, ~BritLuvr~_


	9. Seven: Confrontations

**Chapter Seven: Confrontations**

The Opera House performers bustled about with prolonged fortitude, artistic fervor glazing over their peppy stride as preparations for the day's rehearsal was being thoroughly carried out. Every individual had their own responsibility to execute: Chorus girls were to light the unlit candles upon stage—and did so placidly, walking through first position to fifth for it was the only thinkable way to gracefully prance about wearing Pointe Shoes—while the heftier men were to haul props into their respective places and the other class of men, lanky and lacking in built, surveyed the arena for probable mishaps, with the technicians attending to their own pressing duties prior to such an imperative rehearsal. Barring no one, the _Palais Garnier_ moiled in absolute harmony, strive, and hustle.

Upon the catwalk, however, a pair of perceiving eyes pored over each perturbed action and neurotic twinge: it seemed that the incidents of yesterday still maintained a vigorous dominance over all who had witnessed such grievous events, leaving them to cringe at the slightest movements within the lurid shadows and afraid of what may lie beyond the point of no return.

Conversation, he noted, was subtle. Some statements remarked down in the vicinity of the theater were simple instructions or the casual "hello's" and "good morning's" between colleagues. Gossip had been over, done with, gone by mid-morning for most performers had prattled all there was to say some time before dawn or thereafter, drawling over how rehearsal was to be orchestrated with the new lead. There, too, had been idle talk over the various modifications made not only inside the script, but apart from their magnificent— or rather, newly magnificent— showcase. The news of the day, first and foremost, was that the Prima Dona was in no way, shape, or form preforming at the Opera House.

By the time preparations for rehearsal began, there had been no need to exchange what one heard through the grapevine. Instead, curious minds were left to mule in absolute quiet and solitude, dissecting _all of what they had been led to believe:_

_Would replacing Amber Sweet, in fact, have a positive outcome? Considering this is Shilo's very first performance, how would she react in front of a house filled to its maximum capacity? Granted, she is wonderful and beyond talented, and her voice... Oh that voice! Yes, she _is_ a splendid replacement! The audience would surly lavish her in adoration! Nothing to be worried about, no?_

_Precisely. All is perfect._

Graverobber's throaty grunt resonated within his chest.

Despite having masked their insecurities and fears behind such a pleasant facade, he was, and would always be, too perceptive. Able to ascertain, construe, and observe, no secret or emotion could ever be hidden from Graverobber for long. None at all.

That the performers had the cogency to sequester their all too vexed state of minds was commendable for no other man or woman would notice with the exception of himself; though believing that there was absolutely nothing to worry about was absurd because there were, in fact, plenty of problems to contend with.

And there was no way in hell that everything was just peachy. Even at the thought, Graverobber chuckled humorlessly, his features prominently bitter.

For Graverobber, both worry and pain started with Shilo... and the man within her chamber.

From the shadows atop the catwalk, he concealed himself deep within, lurking quietly, though moving quickly, towards his one and only destination before he no longer had time to confront the matter toying with his every nerve.

Shilo lingered about her dressing room a tad longer than was the norm for her. Her primping, for the most part, had been completed immaculately: hair was perfection, maquillage done with precision, and the fabric that hugged her figure fitted faultlessly. In the light of the dressing room, she was absolutely stunning, though something was very much so erratic in the image presently reflecting in the somewhat begrimed mirror, its edges encrusted with dust.

It was, she concluded, the girl.

The girl with the perfect, ivory hair, flawless completion, and beautiful costume was what distorted the appealing lust of the silk fabric and classy cosmetics strategically painted upon her porcelain face.

Shilo was simply a foreigner to such an extravagant appearance. It knew not her name, but the name of Amber Sweet. Every inch of the garment, every stich in the garment, was made for the Prima Dona, not Shilo. Wearing what belonged not of her made her an alien to herself… but in those deep brown eyes of her counterpart, she saw a thread of blessedness despite the extraneous outward appearance.

It was from that momentary glint that she learned she would certainly have be accepted by the public, that is to include herself, as the new replacement for their showcase. She was to prove to all who had even the least amount of doubt that she would be as good, if not better than, Amber.

_No._

She _was_ to be better than Amber ever was, because she had something her foe did not: the Angle of Music. It was his teachings that had earned her a place on that stage. For Him, for Mag who bestowed upon her this opportunity, and for Graverobber who had always believed and supported her, and she would command center stage and enlighten the each individual with the wonderful music of the Opera House.

The genuine smile that had melted her features encouraged her all the more. Shilo was, she realized, more than ready.

It wasn't until she turned to leave, however, that a thought stopped her mid-stride: Mag and Graverobber! They had both been bickering just outside her chamber last night, but what for? With time as it was now, she would not be able to approach Graverobber prior to rehearsal. It would have to be later that evening and she would have to simply endure the curiosity that—

There was a soft knock then that startled her, pulling her away from her thoughts. It was a beckoning knock; urgent in its careful taps.

"Come in." Shilo expected to see a worried Mag, followed by lecture for being tardy on the very first day. Much to her surprise, Graverobber appeared in what seemed like one fluid movement, swiftly entering the room and closing the door softly behind him.

A silence had settled about.

It was a silence Shilo never before felt around Graverobber. It was unparalleled by anything she previously experienced with him. It was stiff. It was dead. It was heavy with questions that had a stomach for answers. It was gluttonous. It was filled with the want to speak, but knew not how to start; the want to ask, but knew not what to say; the want to know, but knew not when to ask. There was yearning. There was greed. There was pain.

It was purely agonizing! Something simply _had_ to be said!

"Last night—" a sudden stop and the room was filled with the stifling, dead air once more. Shilo's eyes met his, her porcelain skin glowing a soft scarlet— the color of embarrassment— for their thoughts had obviously been traveling upon the same road. Oblivious to his coming, Shilo fully expected that he was standing before her in an honest attempt to explain what he had done to have been scolded so severely by Mag in front of her chamber door.

Shyly then, she nodded, allowing Graverobber to carry on with his allegation— which he hungrily accepted in just a mere second.

"Last night— _late_ last night," he corrected himself and then proceeded, "there was a man's voice in your chamber. Who did it belong to?"

Shilo had been terribly wrong.

The sudden question stunned her and allowed for no sound to pass the threshold of her lips. Graverobber knew only little of her Angel of Music, but even that little to which she had confessed to him on the mornings following a wonderful evening of the Angel's teachings went against her Master's careful instruction. She had only enlightened him with the bare minimal: her Angel of Music had been sent to her by her mother to aid her in developing her most valuable treasure, her voice, in secrecy. Details were not to be given, as instructed by the Angel himself, for he did not want to be wildly known— or known at all for that matter.

_"Say nothing of'a me, bella. Tell no one, or I may never return to you again."_

"The voice belonged to my Angel of Music. My tutor."

Graverobber's chest constricted; had he been right? Could her "tutor" be her lover as well? Why else consort as such an hour?

He masked his heartache and raised his eyebrows skeptically as if to acknowledge her answer as somewhat intriguing, watching as Shilo's expressions changed before him, morphing from bewilderment to wariness.

Shilo scrutinized him fastidiously with dignified endeavor, though she still could not read his blank expression for the life of her. It pained her, almost tore her chest apart, that she could not reveal to Graverobber—the man she wanted so very much—what happens with her Angel of Music as twilight sets in or how mesmerizing he truly is, voice and all! She wished to share her tales and introduce him to such wonders, but she couldn't. She just couldn't betray her Angel of Music. He had bestowed such greatness to her and had become such a significant part of her life! The man that he was, the Angel, _her_ Angel, her savior, was a pure and kindhearted soul!

For her to deceive her Angel would be utter sin.

The room regained its breathless composure, neither of them daring to speak: Shilo engulfed by her own meticulous thoughts and Graverobber silently waiting for her rigid expression to soften.

When she finally relaxed, though, he pressed on. "I understand having a secret tutor, but seeing as you're meeting so late at night in your chamber while everyone else is fast asleep...don't you think it strange?"

Her body became adamant, a wave of nausea consuming her dazed figure. Just as instantaneously as it had devoured her, the retching sensation dissipated and was soon replaced by a mildly flurried hum— the sound of her angered blood coursing vivaciously through her now inflamed body.

"What are you getting at?" Her deep brown eyes had been enlightened with potent furry, a gaze Graverobber had never witnessed before. Shilo's habitually sweet disposition had fixed itself into a menacing frown.

Though intimidated, he persisted to poke and probe— inwardly begging for answers, outwardly impassive and judgmental— for the thing in his chest continued to break, knowing but one truth in their current situation: Shilo was concealing parts of her life from him. For what reason, he knew not, though he yearned with a fiery passion that he did.

"Shi, he may have other—" Graverobber struggled to finish the phrase: _Expectations? Not quite. Desires? No, too corrupt. Motives? Perhaps... _

Graverobber's sigh was rugged as his hand automatically rubbed his forehead in anguish.

"He may have other intentions, Shi."

That simple statement erected the once soft hum in her ears to a blustering wail. Her stride was tinted with every last bit of anger that one could muster, her voice hoarse, for a lump—no bigger than a penny—had formed in her throat, a meager clue that her fit would promptly bring about a cascade of salty-hot tears down her flushed skin.

"You're wrong! You don't know him like I do, Graverobber; don't you dare talk about him like you do!" To say that Shilo was _furious_ was an understatement. Her eyes had become bloodshot, harboring steamy tears; her body, though not so visible, shook with rage; her intoxicating smile had been replaced with a scowl that could make the innocent of people feel a pang of guilt.

Shilo was torn. Graverobber, with whatever intention he had done the unthinkable, had insulted her pure Angel of Music, had tainted his righteous image by insinuating that such an unadulterated personage would bring her, _her!_, harm! It was absolutely absurd how he spat about Him having _ulterior motives!_ She was most certainly not going to idly sit by and listen to _anyone_ insult her beloved Angel! She was not even going to let the man she loved insult Him.

_The man she loved._

Graverobber.

That _he_ was the one insulting her Angel of Music and speaking such nonsense, such rubbish!, pained her all the more.

"I may not know him, but it just seems slimy, Shilo!" He tried to reason with the beautiful girl that stood in front of him whom, even expressing such disdain, made his heart palpitate. "Think about, a man meeting an innocent young girl in the dead of night, refusing to allow her to say a word about him! Doesn't that seem-"

"No, it doesn't!" The tears began to fall.

"Stop being naïve! Young girls like you shouldn't meet with any man that late!" Graverobber's deep voice resonated through the small dressing room before dispersing lifelessly into the thick, heavy air that hung about the two.

Shilo straightened herself up and dabbed at the tears falling aimlessly down her cheeks, letting his words linger a second longer than she should have.

When the silence was almost unbearable, she spoke. "_Allowed?_ If I'm not allowed to meet with a man because I am _young_ and _naive_, what makes you think _you_ are welcomed here?"

It was not a question, not really; it was a statement, a command issued forth from the deep chambers of her hurting heart. Graverobber's own heart, as he watched her walk out the door, tightened in mutual pain.

From the grimy, dusty mirror, unnoticed by the quarreling lovers, cold eyes watched the scene impassively and a sick joy-an evil flower born of obsession and a new burst of hope-bloomed in the dark heart of the eyes' owner.

_A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the delay! School's back, so updates will be sporadic at best, but I'll post when I can! Much love, many thanks, and please review! :3 ~BritLuvr~_


	10. Eight: The Show And The Killer

**Chapter Eight: The Show and the Killer**

The long hours of rehearsal finally gave birth to a stunning opening night, the most highly anticipated in the Opera House's long history. People flocked to and from the Opera, bringing with them friends and family, who in turn brought more friends and family the next night, until it seemed that all Paris-and most of London, Vienna, and other foreign cities-had the new show no less than three times over it's triumphant month-long run. For a time, Rotti even entertained the notion of extending the production's run, but in the end his guests playing in the orchestra pit had to return home on the original date, and so he allowed the sow to come to a natural close.

But for all the glory of the show's run, naught was well within the performer's realm. The show may have been a success, but it seemed that dark godlings had transpired to bring the Opera House to its knees: Amber, aggravated by Shilo's stunning success, was petitioning the managers for her old position back; Rotti, after some consideration, had chosen to dispel the performers' silly fear of an "opera ghost" by refusing to pay the ransom demands; Mag was staying up later to patrol the chorus girls' hallway and keep Graverobber out of the off-limits area; Shilo was going to great pains to avoid her secret love, whose very visage confused her heart to the point of hot tears and cold rage; Graverobber, for his part, was going out of his way to catch Shilo alone, hoping to talk sense into the beautiful young creature.

The distraction of the show was more than sufficient, however, to keep other worries from plaguing operatic minds. Had anyone been paying attention to the world outside of their most immediate concerns, they would have noticed that their resident haunt had failed to raise his voice for so much as a "boo" over the loss of his salary and his seat. They would have noticed that the chorus girls' hallway was _unusually_ quiet, inexplicable even in light of Mag's presence.

Had her mind been anywhere but on her role, Amber might have noticed the bits of ribbon disappearing from her wardrobe. Luigi, not preoccupied with his lover and his disgust at working with her nemesis, might have noticed the tiny, not quite washed-out drops of blood in the far wall of Amber's dressing-room suite. Rotti, undistracted by the first and fabulous bout of gain, might have noticed that the lost items of his patrons were nearly always small amounts of money, and Mag would surely have seen Graverobber's worry were she not up late waiting for his treachery. If she was not so tired from avoiding Graverobber all day, Shilo might have missed the presence of her great Angel, whose honor she defended, and if Graverobber could only have focused on anyone but Shilo, he would have seen all these clues adding up to some monstrous new ploy of the Opera Ghost.

Outside the bright, tiny, protected bubble of the Opera House, only one event rivaled the shining marvel of the new opera; inside that same tiny sphere of influence, only one man heard the news.

It was meek, distraught, embarrassed Nathan who finally brought the newest source of gossip and concern floating around the Parisian streets to the inhabitants of the operatic realm. In the packed room, with every musician, dancer, singer, instructor, technician, usher, costumer, and assorted others filling row upon row of the Opera's house seats, Nathan fidgeted nervously, rolling and unrolling the newspaper in his hand, wondering why it was that he had to deliver such nightmarish news.

He cleared his throat in an ineffectual effort to bring order to the noisy room. He coughed, he clapped his hands-securing the newspaper into the crook of his arm to do so-and even tried a few times to speak over the noise. It wasn't until Mag noticed his efforts and took pity on him that anyone listened.

"I believe our new manager has something to say," she called, and the gigantic room and its loud occupants became silent and humbled in the reminder of the great dame's presence. Nathan nodded his thanks to his old friend and began again.

"I realize that, in all the preparation for the show, many of us have lost touch with the latest news in Paris. Normally this is not a tragedy to be mourned-" and the audience and chuckled in appreciation for the small joke "-but I feel, for your own safety, that we must indulge ourselves." He shook the paper and held the front cover so those seated in the audience could read the headline. Mumurs of confusion sprang up, whispered questions racing from one row to the next, and the confusion remained until one of the set builders called from his seat near the back:

"The font is too small to read, _monsiuer!"_

Nathan's face would normally have flushed at the embarrassing implications of the scenario, had the news not been so dire. Were he more of a performer, the others might have accused him of being overly dramatic...but as things were, the gravity of the situation drowned out such petty thoughts.

"'Murderer Strikes in Central Paris: Police are Baffled,'" Nathan quoted from memory. The House hushed, cold dread creeping in on even the most preoccupied of its occupants. "Three women have murdered since the show's opening."

"That is nothing unusual; murders occur all the time! No one is safe in so large a city!" called a voice from the middle of the rows.

Nathan calmly folded the paper again, readjusting his glasses, his face somber.

"But how many of them have their faces skinned off?"

_A/N: The shocking twist that pushed me into writer's block! Haha! :) No worries, I know what to write and how to write it...it's finding the time that's killing me. It WILL happen! 'Til then...enjoy the suspense! Much love, many thanks, and please review! :3 ~BritLuvr~ PS, if you see any spelling errors or speak Italian and know I've said something wrong, please PM me so I can revise it! Thankies!_


	11. Nine: The Meeting Through The Mirror

**Chapter Nine: The Meeting Through the Mirror**

Shilo sat before her mirror, dressing gown hugged tight to her form as she fought off the cold. All around the Opera House, celebrations were in progress: The show had closed not but two hours before, and the company's success was headier to them than even the finest of wines. And so it came to pass that Shilo was on her own, temporarily forgotten in the relief of a job well done, to stew in her own misery. This was the first moment she had had truly to herself in a long time, and the thoughts i her head were anything but pleasant.

She hadn't spoken to Graverobber since their fight, and he hadn't spoken to her. She had gone out of her way to avoid him, her one true friend in the Opera House, the man that made her heart stir: She was a terrible person for doing that, and she knew it. But she couldn't make herself seek him out, however much she wanted to. He had insulted her Angel and, in a roundabout way, he had insulted her. Such an offense was not to be taken lightly.

Moreover, she hadn't seen her Angel since their personal encounter. She was embarrassed by her behavior (_Honestly! Fainting like I was nothing but a little schoolgirl again!_), but hadn't been given the chance to make it up to him. Had he abandoned her? Had he seen the way she treated those she called friends and turned his back on her?

Shilo felt alone in a way that she had not since her mother's death.

_"Mama?" But the pale figure on the bed did not move. "Mama?" No eyelid stirred, no breath forced the chest up. "Are you sleeping, Mama?" It was gone, whatever that thing was that made Mama sleep instead of just lie, and little Shilo knew she was all alone in the world..._

Shilo looked away from her reflection, ashamed. She was alone now because she was a horrible person, someone worse than Amber, a monster disguised as an angel. Hot tears pricked her eyes and blurred her vision and she gave in to her despair, falling into the deep abyss of her emotion. There was nothing left for her now but her art-no true love, no saving grace, no real family. She suffered as only an artist can suffer, with her mind and soul and heart, and was lost to her grief, crying until she lightheaded and dizzy and wanted to throw-up. In her hysteria she had tried to make it to her bed, but once again, she had stumbled over the edge of her heavy dressing gown and fallen to the floor before her ancient mirror. She had let herself lie there while breath-stealing sobs had wracked her small form, but now that the fit had passed, she tried to pull herself together and rise from her undignified sprawl.

"Are you'a done, _mia bella?_"

Shilo gasped and pulled away, startled. The Angel's voice rang pleasantly throughout the room, rich and romantic but laced with concern for well-being and-being the monstrous human she knew herself now to be-she had wanted to cry again at the sound of it. But she staved the instinct off, focusing instead on the tiny, warm light of hope that had renewed itself in her bosom.

"Y-yes," she whispered quietly, wiping her tears off of her clammy cheeks.

"Good!" And she smiled, for she could almost see the divine smile of the sacred spirit in his bright tone. "And you are'a feeling better?"

She nodded, then stopped herself. She _was_ feeling better, but she didn't _deserve_ to be.

"I'm so sorry," she bleated, covering her face with her hands and willing the fresh tears to go away. The Angel said nothing, and she could sense him waiting. She clenched her hair in her hands, squeezing her eyes and baring her teeth, doing her best to keep her tears at bay. She rocked a bit, back and forth, and began to make tiny, sob-like sounds in between half-moans. She would do anything not to cry again, not when she needed to explain herself to her Angel, but how could she stop it? Despair washed over when she thought of the way she had treated Graverobber, the ugly side of her that had been forced out into the open. How could the Angel return to her after he had seen that? How could he bear to look at her? His very kindness, his compassion and his forgivingness were enough to bring tears to her eyes; pointed at her, how could she hold back the badly weakened dam of her emotions?

"It is'a alright, _tesora_. You do not need to apologize to me." There was another silence as he kindly waited for her to regain her composure. "It has been a long night for you, no? Perhaps it is'a best if you get'a some sleep. I will'a return tomorrow-"

"NO!" Shilo shrieked, jumping to her knees from the floor. Then, embarrassed by her rude outburst, she corrected herself. "I mean, no, that isn't necessary. Please, Angel, you've only just returned to me; don't abandon me again so soon."

"Never," he replied, so solemnly Shilo felt his conviction strike a chord, a beautiful, musical chord, deep within her soul...so quietly, she pinpointed its source as being the mirror before her. The word had come, not from all around her like usual, but from right in front of her, as though the Angel had knelt down to her level and was separated from her only by the thin layer of silvered glass. She stared at it curiously, wondering if perhaps it's grandeur was all thanks to the Angel, it-not the portrait-was the shrine he blessed with his presence, the portal to his realm. She rose, enchanted by the idea that merely stepping through its aged surface-acting, if you will, as Alice though her looking-glass-she might come face to face with her mysterious tutor.

Gently, hesitantly, she laid her open palm on the smooth, cool surface, breath close enough to lightly fog it's surface.

"Angel...?" Her eyes searched the glass questioningly, seeking something, anything, to let her know he was there.

"_Mia bella..._" He sounded almost winded in her ears, light and breathy and hopeful that she might-oh, but it was silly fantasy and nothing more. She looked away and her hand dropped back down to her side just as someone began insistently knocking at her door.

"Shilo?" Her heart froze and her eyes grew huge. Could her luck hold? Could it really be- "Shilo, it's me. Please, let me in." The pleading quality of Graverobber's voice tore at her young heart, and she turned toward the door, feeling that her Angel had arranged this to purify her once more. She began walking toward the door, choosing her words of apology and rehearsing them in her mind, knowing she only had one chance to get this right.

"Stop!" hissed the Angel from his mirror-realm, and she obediently froze in her tracks, turning inquiringly back towards the mirror. "Do you not see, _cara? _This was not'a you fault! That _fool-_" he spat the word like a curse "-caused all of this. Not you, you did nothing wrong. It was _him_. Do you not'a remember how he drug'a my name through'a the mud? How he'a insinuated that what we do is'a _impure_? You cannot'a let him back into you life so easily, _bella_. He will only take'a advantage of you again." Shilo stepped back, confused. The Angel's tone was so...spiteful. So hateful. So full of malignance and malice that she would have sworn that, had she not known in her heart that it _was_ her Angel, the man speaking was a demon. Clearly, he saw or sensed her confusion and fear, for he continued in a much more calming, reasonable tone, "He will'a no doubt be worthy again someday, but today is not'a his day. It is'a _you _day. You were'a a triumph."

Shilo blushed at the compliment, looking down demurely. She was about to tell the Angel that the credit was all his when the knocking came again.

"Shi?" This time Graverobber sounded much less sure of himself.

She looked over her shoulder, heart breaking at the sound of his pain.

"Do not'a give in, _bella,_" the Angel urged from the mirror. His voice was silk and honey, soft and smooth and sweet, and it touched her heart in a way no other sound ever could. She looked back and focused her attention once more on the mirror, knowing her Angel was right and daring to hope that he, perhaps, needed her this night, needed her voice or her attention to rejoice in his heavenly ways. Graverobber pounded on her door once again, bringing home the realization that he would not be leaving tonight until they spoke.

"Angel...," she began hesitantly, sure he had already sensed this but unable to run the risk that he had not. "He-he won't leave until we speak." She smiled softly, eyes misting over as she relived some small memory. "He can be very stubborn."

"Then perhaps'a you should join me, _carina_."

The offer snapped her back into the here and now. She looked at the mirror, baffled, and waited for him to explain.

"Come to me," he whispered. A chill ran up her spine and she pulled her dressing gown closer, but otherwise ignored the renewed cold. She took small, unsure steps away from the door, approaching the mirror warily, fascinated by the idea that she could perhaps step through it to a strange new world, one where she could stand once more face-to-face with the elusive Angel. "Come," he repeated, voice softer, and she was practically touching noses with her reflection, eyes still searching for some secret outline, some surer sign to let her know he was really there.

"Shilo, please!"

The anguished cry from the door was enough to steal her attention away: She whipped her head around so quickly she could feel her long black hair as it struck the mirror in protest, wrapping back around her in outrageous mimicry of a scarf thrown 'round the neck of an insulted woman. She shifted her upper body, still close enough to feel when her elbow glided across the surface of the mirror...and when that selfsame surface _vanished_. Startled, she fell backwards with a stifled cry. As the mirror slid back into place-she watched it, horror stricken, with wide eyes-she became aware that she was not on the ground, as she should be after a fall, but was being supported, held up. She glanced down, almost afraid of what she would discover. A strong arm was wrapped around her middle, dressed decadently in fine sleeves of a rich material, and she being tightly held against something warm, breathing, and tall. She glanced up and back, dazed, to find mysteriously lively eyes staring down at her from the dark holes a familiar mask...white porcelain, painted over which were feminine red lips and black-lined, equally feminine eyelids, the pseudo-cheekbones lightly dusted and flecked with gold paint and glitter.

"We must'a stop meeting like this," said the man holding her in the warm, rich, familiar tones of the Angel, chest rumbling pleasantly with the sound from beneath her shoulder. "It cannot'a be good for'a you health to fall so much."

_A/N: Hello all! Thanks so much for those lovely reviews, they really boost the ego! ;P In any event, I have returned (from the dead!). JK. Actually, this one isn't my fault...my co-writer has been grappling with work (boo!), so she hasn't written me a shiney new chapter yet. In penitance for missing her two-week deadline, she has forfeited the honor of keeping this last chapter to herself. So I'm sharing it with you now. :) More will come as soon as she finishes, I promise! Hugs & Kisses, and Much Thanks, ~BritLuvr~  
>P.S.: Don't hate me for the cliffhanger!<em>


	12. Ten: Agonizing Shadows

**Chapter Ten: Agonizing Shadows**

To be separate: A profound gap between what the soul so desires and the man who desires it.

Separated.

Gone.

To vanish: A fleeting feeling, leaving a lonely heart in its haste.

Vanished.

No more.

Agony: The bittersweet heart-ache within the man's solemn breast.

_Morto._

His eyes searched blindly for no one, for no one blindly stalked the shadow-filled halls beyond twilight on any moonless evening. His quivering lips beckoned for that small figure to come to him—open up to him— though he knew very well that it was a lofty prayer dispersing from a mute mouth. His hands grasped at nothing, and nothing satisfied the burning distress, the ever so foreboding fever, that burdened him as he stood heavy against the door that would not bare the young dame he longed for.

His ears strained to devour the sullenness for whatever din... for that celestial voice of hers. Yet, through his anguished cries and reckless knocking, her soft murmur had vanished. It was gone. No more.

And so was _his. _

_That man._

His chest constricted as his mind bid ever so strongly for answers. He was overcome by the many thoughts that flowed incessantly, those which gesticulated possibilities that tore him apart and set him rigid with pain.

As Graverobber stood defeated in what little candlelight was left, the shadows thickened as the artificially weak light died. Said shadows, as they danced upon the walls and flickered about in tender flight, consumed him, hiding him within the profundity of the shadows that which also cloaked their secrets from the vast reaches of the Opera House. Was he to lose Shilo and be eternally damned with these unspoken feelings?

And who was this man that has been taken to Shilo, and Shilo he?

What in the hell had befallen the Opera House? Was he, the covert observer, failing to notice a thing or two?

"Damn it, Shi," _it took a starlet like you to drive me mad. _

This love…his love… Graverobber's love: oh how its arrows hit him so!

There was, however, one certain nerve in his chaotic body: He was absolutely not handing Shilo over to any man, especially not any "mystery man", and certainly not without a fight!

Shilo's door groaned in protest as Graverobber, in all his glory and with a hearty fist, forced it open in search of _something._

_Anything._

_A/N: Happy (belated) Holidays! :D This is what I finally got back from my co-author... Next chapter is (hopefully) soon to come, but as the muses afre not yet with me, it'll have to wait. In the meantime, enjoy this fun little segement my co-author totally doesn;t know I'm sharing with you:  
>"How Graverobber is feeling right now... i know how he feels and what he is going through. I am so sorry and i wish i could tell that to all our readers XD ... i swear my emotions are attached to this storyyy! XD my heart hurts when it comes to all this drama going on between everyone at the Opera House... i'm soooooo anxious to see what happens next and i am soooo sorry it took so long or if what i wrote ths time isn't that good XD my perfectionist side is killing me cuz i want people to actually feel what Graverobber is going through but its so hard for me to find the words to write or the perfect description XD lololol, its so hard, but i KNOWWWW what he feels XD ... "MERRY CHRISTMAS BITCHES!" ;D"<br>Straight from the horse's mouth, this to you I swear! So, on with the story...oh! And cyber-five to anyone who can place the quote she used in that last line!  
>XOXO, ~BritLuvr!~<em>


	13. Eleven: The Journey Into Darkness

**Chapter Eleven: The Journey into Darkness**

Shilo's head swam as she followed the dark, sleek figure before her. Her mouth was dry, and she feared losing her balance...she probably would have, had he not been guiding her by the hand. Dignity, in that case, kept her from tumbling: He himself had pointed-out her improper propensity for falling down in front of him, and so she would not do so again. Or, at least, she would try not to.

Her hand tingled wherever it met his, a sumptuous sensation she would not trade for all the world. She felt like she had known this man her whole life, like she-perhaps-had loved this man her whole life; certainly, she had known him for _most_ of her life...but when had she started to love him? She had worshipped him and his beautiful music since day one...had she loved him since then too? It was all too hard to tell; her emotions were simply too mixed-up, a heady elixir when added to the fact that she was in the presence of divinity on earth, and touching said presence.

He glanced back often, the soft light of the candelabra he held in his forward hand glinting mysteriously off of the paint. He seemed, in Shilo's overworked mind, to be worried for her safety; she did not, could not!, fathom that he too was over-awed by her presence and feared he would lose it lest he check on it.

In this manner, they descended down the hidden passageways of the Opera's cellar, down, down, to the very core of the earth, to the very depths of Hell, and still farther they traveled. Shilo's swimming head would soon have her swooning; she could feel the fainting spell coming on. She was dizzy and short of breath, over-excited and over-exerted from this strange trek into the Angel's domain. She stopped short, one frail and shaking hand touching her forehead with trembling gentleness, the other hardly able to squeeze her companion's to signal her distress. He whirled around at once, alarmed by her weakened state; she sagged against a damp wall, licking her dry lips and crying for her parched throat. The Angel approached her; his hand left hers to softly caress her fever-stricken face. He helped her gently the dusty ground, setting aside his candelabra, soothing her with gentling words in Italian. One cool leather-clad hand smoothed over her brow as the other lifted her face sweetly by the chin, two fingers curled under and stroking her like a rare, delicate tropical bird.

"It is'a not much farther, _bella_. If'a you can walk, I can'a get you water and let'a you rest."

Shilo nodded her head in silent disagreement, not trusting her voice to give word to her weakness. No, she could go no farther. The Angel stared at her, head cocked, and he quietly thought to himself. Tears sprang to her eyes as a new thought occurred to her; what if this was a test? What if he was gauging her, seeing how strong she was, judging if she was strong enough to continue under his tutelage? This inability to go further, this was failing! She was failing her Angel! Her shoulders shook in a silent sob, and what would have been a hiccup if she had any voice left bobbed in her throat. She could do this; she might not be strong, but her devotion gave her strength; she would not disappoint her Angel! Imbued by the power of her determination, Shilo forced herself to her feet. Her head swam dizzyingly with the motion, her vision blacked-out temporarily in protest, but she would let nothing stop her...and so, she was surprised when the Angel himself put a gentle but firm hand on her shoulder and would not let her make a single move more. He stooped to the candelabra and straightened, brilliant eyes watching his devoted pupil from beneath his beautiful mask.

"Hold this tight, _prezioso_," he instructed, gentling pressing their only source of light into her hands. She took it, willing her hands not to shake; when she looked up from the momentary distraction, he was gone.

Panic overwhelmed her and she almost dropped the light before she felt the now-familiar hands of her Angel lightly caressing her shoulders. Heat radiated from his body; it surrounded and comforted her, even in the midst of her feverish state. She leaned into him, blindly trusting, and it seemed for a moment he bent to her to breathe-in her scent-but this, she knew, could not be so, that is was just the wishful fantasy in her mind that he would do so. He exhaled slowly, breath tenderly touching her skin, and she almost shivered with the intimacy such an action produced: All too soon, however, the sensation ended, giving way instead to the melodic splendor of his finely accented voice.

"Hold the candles _tight_," he reminded her, and her clutch became viselike. "Do not'a drop them."

_Drop them? _she wondered. _Why would I—_

The thought was interrupted by action: The Angel bent and literally _swept her off her feet_, holding her like a princess to be rescued from a cursed castle, like a bride to be taken over the threshold. Shilo gasped, but obediently did not drop the light source. The Angel chuckled, a throaty sound that was somehow still musical in his dazed student's ears.

"_B__en fatto, bella_; well done." He adjusted his hold on her. "And'a now, we are off."

He carried her sweetly, like a fragile thing not to be dropped, which was not so far from the truth; in her current state, Shilo was best off not fending for herself. It was a sweet dream made reality for the both of them, though neither knew it was so for the other. Each enjoyed what they thought to be an individual wish to remain in this state indefinitely, though both knew that this, like all other good things, must end. It was over all too soon: With subtle reluctance, the Angel put the object of his passion down on solid ground. Shilo's vision reeled, and the Angel, sensing this, steadied her with ready hands. In a single, smooth motion, he plucked the candleabra from her hands lest they be left in utter night.

"Where are we?" Shilo whispered, taken over by her awe.

The room was spacious and blessedly cool. Every sound, from the quietest of shuffles to Shilo's very own voice, bounced around and away and back again, a delightful illusion for the ears. As the skin was delighted by the cool, as the ears were delighted by the echoes, so was the eye delighted by the sight, for just beyond the cemented stone on which they stood was a lake blacker than the night's sky, a single boat riding the ripples its presence created moored to the rock on a make-shift dock consisting of a single, solid peg of wood neatly polished and attached to the floor, bound to the boat by a length of rope.

"We are at'a the entrance of'a my kingdom, so to speak," the Angel whispered, deftly slipping around Shilo and walking to the boat. "Come," he continued, turning toward her and beckoning. "The water is'a the coolest, sweetest, freshest water in all of'a Paris...and you, _mio tesoro_, have'a need of it."

Humbled by the reminder of her weakness, Shilo walked meekly and shyly to the water's edge. With a grace and a delicacy she usually reserved for her ballet, she knelt at the lake and drank with cupped hands from it's bounty. It was, indeed, cool and sweet and fresh, and she was thankful for it's presence. The Angel allowed her to sit and rest for a time, watching her all the while with eyes attentive to her every movement, before coming forward to help her up.

"There is much of'a the journey still ahead of us," he cooed. Shilo stood and came to stand beside him as he leaned over into the moored boat. He withdrew from it a single lantern, which he promptly handed to Shilo. With a swift and practiced hand, he removed a single candle from the candleabra, lit the lantern, and doused all but the single light held now held in Shilo's hand. He stared into her face a moment before carrying on with the task at hand. Ever the gentleman Shilo imagined him to be, he helped her into the ornately carved boat-it's beautiful angel bowhead stood out starkly half-light, the roses in her cupped hands fading into into darkness-before jumping in himself and removing the rope. Taking an oar from the keel of the boat, he pushed away from shore, and together they glided into the shadows. Soon the shore faded from all possible sight, leaving Shilo with a frightened thought: What if the boat sank, or overturned? She couldn't swim under normal circumstances, and certainly not in her dressing-gown. Would she drown? Would her Angel drown trying to save her? Would they ever be found?

"Do not'a fear," the Angel murmered sweetly, sensing in that strange way of his Shilo's distress. "Sing for me."

Her voice, though trembling with fear at first, soon soared to the very heavens on wings of beautiful music. Shilo sang of music, and art, and passion, and love; she sang of angels and salvation; she sang of mothers and weeping children and the miracles sent to earth from the very gods themselves.

Guided now by passionate music and a solitary light, Shilo and her Angelcontinued their journey into the very depths of darkness, waiting only to touch down on whatever shore awaited them beyond the shroud of shadows.

_A/N: AHA! XD I'm very proud of myself...it's a rough start, but otherwise, this scene is EXACTLY WHAT I WANTED! That's only happened in two other chapters I've written...anyone care to guess which two? ;P Anyway, consider this another belated holiday gift, as well as a half-apology gift for making you all work so hard.  
>So I know I've asked already, but...who all here is reading this story because of its Phantom-ocity? There's another one I'm writing that I'm thinking I might upload, but I don't think anyone would read it...and really...that's just depressing, seeing as this one seems to be doing so well. Can I get your opinion on the matter, please? Thanks!<br>XOXO, ~BritLuvr!~_


	14. Twelve: The Secrets of a New World

_A/N: Hello all~! BritLuvr here. :3 So...yeah. Got tired of waiting for me co-author to get back to me on that Graves chapter and decided you all deserved an update. This one goes to Flyspark, who's been reviewing like CRAZY! Thanks so much, dear! Also, head's up; making some format changes. Do not be alarmed. :) Okay, that's enough of me, I'll let you get to it!_

**Chapter Twelve: The Secrets Of A New World**

The cobblestones were slick with the sticky red liquid gushing from the gaping wound in her stomach. Peering in to assess the damage, she knew she would not make it. She could see the pale coils of her own intestines neatly stacked within, a single loop of the coil dangling lazily out of its fleshy cocoon. She touched it, curious; a horrible, flaming pain shot through her, as if she had touched her distorted face, which felt scalded even in the gentle caress of the night air. Her purple bruises were already yellowing, as if they were physically ill, and the deep lacerations in her arms and chest stung from the dirt that had fallen in them. Her every nerve burned with a white-hot intensity formerly unknown to her, a level of pain which had already caused her black out. Her body was dying, with or without her consent. That, or she had grown more tolerant of the pain. From her sprawled position, she took in her surroundings.

Everything was as it had been before, the dark, unpopulated alley and the night sky with its roaming shadow-clouds blocking the stars from high above. She looked down at her body again, fearful of what new atrocities she might fine: Something whitish and dripping red poked out from one calf, spilling more of her ruby wine across the stones. She moved the leg experimentally, hissing in new pain. It hurt to move, to breathe, to live, but she pulled herself inch by aching inch forward, determined to use her last, fleeting moments of life to make a difference. Starbursts of color flashed before her eyes-red, white, blue, green, purple, black-each big and bright and longer lasting, consuming more and more of her actual vision. The dark street with its crimson river gave way more and more to the flashes of color, and she knew that whatever that monster had done to her before was in the past; she was now locked in a deadly race against time. There was no prize for winning this race, not for her and not for time, but perhaps for the next young woman caught in this situation, the running of this race would be made well worth it.

Her voice was gone, her will to cling to life was used-up. There was only pain, and the flashes, and determination. She pulled herself close to the grating set low in the wall of the nearby building, body going numb and clumsy, stubbornly ignoring her will. Panting with the effort, she used the only thing available to tell her story-and halfway through the painstaking process of telling it, she collapsed, falling on her face, the raw nerves there screaming but the inpact. Their cries fell on deaf ears as the young woman's eyes glazed over.

No one had heard her scream. No one had witnessed her brutal beating, or the horrible mutilations inflicted upon her. No one had watched her die, or smelt her blood when it first hit the uneven stones of the street, or tasted her fear on the air that blew through the darkened alley. Yet, perhaps, someone would read her tale: Scrawled just above the desecrated body, in its own shakey hand with the blood that had once flowed so freely from its own heaving wounds, was a simple message which glinted darkly in the starlight peering out from between the nighttime clouds. In the morning, the police would find her, stripped in more ways than one and lying in a dried puddle of her own blood, but with any luck they would be able to look up from that dark pool of human mortality and see it.

**tricked by his song**  
><strong>could not fight him off<strong>  
><strong>stop him before another one di<strong>

Sooner than expected, the tiny boat glided out of the darkness and into a new port, a new world, filled with the glittering flicker of candlelight over water. It was a glorious sight, dazzling to the darkness-accustomed eyes of the boat's passengers. With an expert hand, the Angel steered the boat in to the new cavern, smaller than that which housed the body of the lake, yet larger than might be expected. Shilo's tired eyes could not discern the new cavern's exact dimensions, owing partially to the tricks played by wavering candles and partially to the lethargy taking over her small body.

The Angel's domain was fitting for his demeanor; dark and mysterious at the edges, yet radiant and glittering in its immediate embrace. The candles' flames danced on the water, the gleaming cavern walls, the hot melted wax as grew heated and fell to the earth, cooling into a spotty marble of pure white over the uneven surface of the ground, tears of passion grown cold with time.

The boat knocked gently against the shore, jolting Shilo violently out of her own head. The Angel chuckled fondly, clearly taken with her child-like fascination and youthful tendencies. He docked the boat and helped Shilo up onto the solid ground, clasping her hand for just a moment longer than perhaps was necessary.

"_Benvenuto, bella_; welcome to'a my home." The Angel stepped back with a sweeping bow, encompassing the strange play of light and shadows in one broad gesture. Shilo took small, hesitant steps. Her mind was oddly free of her body, soaring all around in the room in a flurry of curiosity and comprehension of the Angel's strangeness, but her body was heavy, a burden to be heaved to and fro with all of her might. The unusual combination confused her senses further, shrinking and stretching the room at odd intervals as she tried to pull the two errant elements into proper alignment. The Angel, sensing some distress on her part, gently took her by the elbow and guided her away from the docks, fearful that she would fall into the water if proper precaution was not taken.

He lightly steered her to the velvety seat of a grand organ whose pipes sparkled from the intense light given off by the ring of candles surrounding it, twenty at the least—though even simple mathematics were beyond Shilo's flighty mind at the moment. She stumbled and fell onto the bench's cushion, watching in stupefaction as the Angel reverently caressed the keys with his fingertips. It was the only other thing Shilo had ever seen him act so passionately towards; his music. Of course, the organ looming before her now must be the birthplace of his beautiful music, the seat in which she was perched his mighty throne from which he created that other kingdom he ruled so well. She smiled a bit at the thought, a bright, sweet crescent moon gracing the sky of his timeless realm. All the while, the Angel looked on with hooded eyes, greedily drinking in all Shilo so willingly gave.

"Stay here, _mia bella_. I wish'a to show you something."

Shilo did as she was told, retaining her seat at the musical alter. She lightly ran her fingers over the key and shivered delicately at the thought of the genius produced here. It was a wonder, it was a secret cathedral offering prayers up to some mysterious god—no, angel—of music, a sweet divinity of symphony, the harmonious rapture which entrapped the mortal soul made the mind a slave to its glorious composition. It was a private world in the mind built from the physical presence of ivory and brass, or black and white and bronze and silver and…red?

Shilo frowned, focusing her tired eyes and wandering mind on the misfit color. There was no mistaking it—a deep red, crimson, spotted the floor beneath the organ. It did not touch the scared keys, and yet…. Shilo cast about her, but could not find the comfort she sought. All the candles of this underground kingdom where white, pure…no red wax dared to mingle in their bodies or cling to the shining arms of their candelabras. She looked down again, following the cerise spots with her eyes. As the trail showed no upward inclination towards the organ, she followed it the other way, rising from her seat on the bench. Adrenaline flooded her veins and made light of the once-heavy body, concentrated the once-soaring mind. Her heart beat hard on the cage of her ribs, making a desperate bid for escape, and her breath came light and fast in tiny gasps. Dread filled her as she reached down, slowly prying open the bench's lid to peer below the surface of the mysterious.

Horribly misshapen, bloodied and wrinkled and curling in on itself, revealing a horrific network of disused veins, the _thing_ stared up from the bench's compartment with awful, empty eyes, attempting a smile or smirk that filled her with gut-wrenching revulsion and fear. She fell away in a swoon, unable to control her body, as illness and disgust and fright waged a war in her mind to claim her erratic thoughts. The candles doused themselves and left her utterly alone in a foreign darkness.


	15. Thirteen: The Dreamer's Sin

_A/N: Fair warning time!: This chapter is why I initially rated the story M (this chapter is also dedicated to Flyspark!). If you've been enjoying the story thus far and don't want to ruin it with a mediocre attempt at smut, I'd recommend skipping over the italicized sequence below. You have been warned. :) Also, apologies for the shortness; it was planned to be longer, but didn't quite pan out. Thanks!_

**Chapter Thirteen: The Dreamer's Sin**

Half-forgotten dreams—for surely they could be nothing but—crowded and jostled for Shilo's attention as sleep pressed slowly forward to claim its reward. She had been like this for months, or perhaps weeks, or days, hours; the exact time was a mystery lost in the twilight haze of a sickness which had been brewing for the better part of the last few weeks' harried rehearsals.

_Waking up from a dead faint before an alter to an imaginary angel, the first thing she had realized was that she was on a cloud. Everything was bright and soft and wonderful but very hazy, and it made concentration hard. Kneeling over her was a very beautiful man, with a face like painted porcelain and a funny but familiar impediment to his speech, some unknown—or well known, she couldn't quite recall which—accent, which was handsome and foreign all at once. He sounded very worried, but his face was fixed in a seductive smirk. She recalled reaching up and stroking his face, marveling at the cool feel of it beneath her fingertips. The man tensed and watched her, wary, uncertain…but, Shilo sensed, longing, for what, she did not know. With her smooth ballerina grace she pushed herself up, face almost level with his, still exploring the weirdly symmetrical planes of his unmoving face. He had murmured something, some word of warning, but she had ignored it, very taken with her investigations. She continued to trace his features with her trembling fingers, wondering at such perfection, when a pair of sweetly uncertain hands moved to tenderly touch her arms…._

_Cool air blanketed her bare arms, feverishly hot and growing ever warmer as he skillfully set every nerve on fire. His hands ran freely up and down her arms, her back, her neck, around her waist, daring for brief moments to fall to her lap and stroke her thigh before returning to sanctioned territory. They were in total darkness now, cool darkness, with the twinkle of the earlier cloudy lights blocked out by a thick curtain. His lips, improbably soft, crushed against hers, his tongue fiercely claiming her mouth, and she surrendered to the darkness, to him, moaning and sighing and leaning closer in to his touch, arched back in the beginnings of a pleasure her virgin mind could not comprehend…._

_She was nude and raw in the dark, comforted by it but somehow aware that he could still see her, even if she could only sense him. She had no idea the rapture her body held for him, the worship he felt for her pale flesh, gleaming with sweat that was slowly cooling. He leaned down over her again, hot breath trailing lightly over her body, followed in suit by the feather-light touch of his fingers. He stopped at one breast, eager to please, pulling the taunt nipple into his mouth and suckling lightly. She gasped and involuntarily bucked into him, unable to process the warm pleasure building at her core. One hand massaged and kneaded her soft mounds as his mouth worked its twin, leaving only long enough to give the same attentions to the other…._

_His hands slowly pushed her legs apart, revealing her womanhood to him. She gasped in shock as the cold air hit her sensitive flesh, and then again as something warm and wet began to lap at her wet inner walls, slowly wearing down the last of her resistance to performing this sacred act…._

_The wings of pleasure slowly left her, still shuddering, back where she started, with her attentive angel kneeling above her. He pulled his mouth down, puffing hotly into her ear as he pleaded to be granted a final boon, a precious gift he yearned for more than any other. Reluctantly, she gave her permission, and slowly, gently, with a tenderness no mortal man could have produced, he sheathed himself fully within her, halting to allow her to adjust…._

Shilo moaned, lost in the feverish half-sleep, and turned over, one sensation battling another as the dreams rushed onward in spirals of pleasure and pain across the tinted canvas of her mind. Separated from her by a thin, gauzy curtain, the Angel looked and listened on in a confusing stupor of triumph, satiation, and shame.

Mag strode down the corridor which housed the ballet company's boarding rooms. Her fury, a palpable entity of brimstone and fire, served only to mask her fear, her regret, her pain, yet it sent the ballerinas, young and old alike, scurrying back into their rooms and cowering beneath their sheets. She approached Shilo's door, face set in a mask of wrath, and flung open the door.

On the little nearby bed, Shilo stirred but did not awaken. Her face was flushed, her hair damp and slick and stuck to her forehead as she tossed and turned. Below her reddened cheeks she was alarming pale. She was lying on top of the covers, in only her slip; her slippers and dressing gown were neatly arranged in a chair near the mirror, with a neatly written note folded on top. Mag took the scene in with a maternal pang of her fast-melting heart, grateful to have her goddaughter back, safe and sound, if worse for the wear.

She gingerly closed the door and crossed to Shilo's side, smoothing the hair back from her face and mopping up some of the sweat. She tidied the girl, then left on a double-errand; firstly to fetch some water for the poor girl, and secondly to inform the managers of her return.


End file.
